Care I for My Limbs
by volley
Summary: Written for "What the Hell Happened to the Captain?" month. Can Archer survive the effects of the latest away mission gone awry?...
1. Chapter 1

Just in the nick of time, here is my entry for "What the Hell Happened to the Captain?" month challenge. Set before the Expanse.

I must thank Kathy Rose, if I was able to meet this deadline. She beta read at the speed of lightning in absence of RoaringMice (who, I hope, managed to travel safely to her destination, winter blizzards notwithstanding). Grateful thanks also to Gabi2305, who suggested the challenge in the first place, and encouraged me in my writing.

The title - for lack of finding a better one - is a twist of "Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit." (Falstaff, from _Henry IV _by Shakespeare).

§ 1 §

Malcolm forced his eyes to crack open. He wanted to see who it was that had him by the shoulders and was shaking him, trying to make him lose the contents of his stomach. Trip's face, usually cheerful and warm, appeared twisted in some unpleasant emotion. Concern perhaps, or even anger. His mouth was moving, but Malcolm's brain could only register distorted sounds. God, he felt sick. "Stop," he croaked out, but Trip shook him harder, face set in a hard mask as he shouted words that were beyond Malcolm's grasp. Malcolm swallowed back some bile. He couldn't make heads or tails of the sounds, but for some reason he could read Trip's lips as clearly as a book. "What the hell happened to the Captain?" the man was asking him sharply. "Answer me, Lieutenant!"

With a gasp, Malcolm jerked awake. He took in his surroundings and tried to sit up, but Trip's hands – indeed on his shoulders – guided him gently but firmly back down to the biobed. Breathing raggedly, Malcolm couldn't shift his eyes from his friend's mouth, even though now he had no trouble understanding his voice. "Easy, Malcolm," Trip was saying, in a soft tone that was more like him and had nothing to do with that of the Trip of his nightmare.

Malcolm tracked up to blue, sympathetic eyes. Suddenly, a hypospray was pressed to his neck. He flinched away from the cold metal, but a second later it was there again, and its contents were shot into his bloodstream.

"There, Mister Reed. That will help you relax."

Phlox was scanning him, lips pursed in thought. It wasn't long before a feeling of warmth began to spread through Malcolm's body, undoing his tension knots as it progressed. His rate of respiration eased.

"Doc?" Trip quietly enquired, a faint smile pasted on his face.

"I can't find anything wrong with the Lieutenant," Phlox replied with a shrug. "I suppose that's good news."

"What..." Malcolm began, but his mind was jumbled. Only one thing had stuck to it, bleeding into conscious thought. "The Captain?" he asked in trepidation.

"He's fine." Trip frowned uncomprehendingly. "It's you who... Doc?" he enquired again, eyes returning to the man in question.

One hand to an elbow, the other pensively to his chin, Phlox reasoned, "A slight confusion is common, after someone loses consciousness. However, it won't hurt to keep the Lieutenant in Sickbay for the night, as a precaution."

_Loses consciousness?_ Malcolm closed his eyes again – he might experience another nightmare, but he'd take that chance. It couldn't be much worse than this. "Would someone tell me what in the bloody hell is happening?" he managed in one breath.

There was a moment of silence.

"What do you remember?" Phlox asked.

Brilliant. The man was going to start with _that_. Malcolm wanted answers, not questions, but he felt in no condition to argue. Heaving a patient breath, he searched his memory. "I was on the planet with Captain Archer," he stated firmly, re-opening his eyes.

He was sure about that. The knowledge made him feel better, and he began to sit up, pushing aside Trip's restraining hand. He was glad for his friend's help, though, when, throwing his legs off the side of the bed, he almost toppled over. Phlox regarded him with a critical eye, Trip with a worried one.

"We were scanning the area," Malcolm continued, in order to stall any concerned suggestion to lie down again, "looking for anything that might have sent that signal."

And just where had all that come from? His mind had been blank. He'd blurted the words out without knowing, but they seemed to be making sense, for he got no weird reactions.

"And?"

Trip's gaze bore expectantly into his eyes. Malcolm looked back vacantly.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Phlox nudged him.

"I..."

Damn, what _was_ the last thing he remembered? Slowly, the fog began to dissipate. He saw himself and Archer against the backdrop of a bare, dusty landscape.

"I... told the Captain we were wasting our time, that our instruments weren't picking up any signals and, especially, there was nothing on that rock of a planet that would point to it being home to any intelligent species." Malcolm lifted a hand and rubbed his temples. "I remember telling him we might as well go back to the ship..." He looked directly into Trip's eyes. "Are you _sure_ the Captain is okay?"

"Yeah. Why do you keep askin'?"

"Nothing," Malcolm huffed out. It was daft of him. But unease from his nightmare was still lingering, making him doubt his senses. He saw Trip narrow his gaze, searching his face for clues, and made an effort to look untroubled.

"Capt'n said that all of a sudden you keeled over and lost consciousness," the man said.

Malcolm had surmised as much. "Well, I don't remember _that_. Where is he now?" He cast a glance towards the decon chamber.

Trip read his thoughts and shook his head. "He's with T'Pol, trying to figure out where the hell that signal went. It's disappeared. If I hadn't been on the Bridge when Hoshi picked it up, I'd think you were all delusional."

"My patient needs rest now," Phlox interrupted in that compulsive good mood of his.

There was nothing Malcolm found more irritating than a cheery physician. Besides, he could find nothing particularly cheery in Phlox's pronouncement. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to lie down in bed.

"Can't I get it in my quarters?" he said confrontationally.

"Though I can't find anything wrong with you, I want to keep you under observation for a few hours, Mister Reed. You'll be my guest for the night." The words were accompanied by an overlarge smile.

"But you said it yourself: I'm fine," Malcolm protested.

Phlox pulled open a drawer. A moment later, he was silently handing him a Sickbay robe.

As Malcolm reluctantly accepted it, Trip patted a hand on his thigh. "Well, I'll see ya," the man drawled, his concern having turned to amusement. He started towards the door, and when he was near it, chimed, "Glad you're okay."

Malcolm acknowledged the words with a lopsided smirk; then, with a sigh, watched his friend disappear behind the Sickbay doors.

* * *

Captain Archer was having a strange day. First that signal, coming from a planet that, technically, wasn't even fit to sustain life. Then, Malcolm fainting – in an EV suit, oh joy! And now... now... Archer almost shook his head to clear it, but the look T'Pol was giving him made that entirely unnecessary. It was the Vulcan version of a pissed-off _Are you listening?_ Rubbing his chin pensively, he uttered a non-committal grunt, in the hope that it would do. Suddenly, his ready room felt very small.

She heaved an audible breath. "I have carried out several sensor sweeps of the planet, Captain."

"And?"

Wrong question. T'Pol's eyebrows lifted judgementally, and it took her a second to reply.

"As I said," she eventually went on – and Archer heard loud and clear the _just_ she had refrained from speaking – "my opinion is that there is no point for Enterprise to remain in orbit any longer."

"Well, how the hell can you think that?" Archer blurted out. "You, of all people!"

T'Pol blinked once. It was a meaningful blink. Again, it was the Vulcan version of an astonished _What?_ Her lips pursed imperceptibly – or rather, quite perceptibly – before forming a cautious, almost anxious enquiry.

"May I ask what you mean by that, Captain?"

Archer blinked back. "I mean… that there has to be a logical explanation," he came back, a lot more composedly. He turned to the window to hide a wince. He didn't like to be quick-tempered, especially without a reason. He stretched his neck. His body was aching. He should spend more time in the gym. "I'm _not_ tired," he grumbled, with his back to his First Officer.

There was a pause, during which he realised she hadn't said he was.

"I didn't say you were," T'Pol indeed remarked a moment later.

Archer turned. Her usually unfathomable eyes were definitely assessing him.

There was a chirp from the intercom, then, "Tucker to Archer."

Just at the right time. With a couple of strides, Archer was at his desk. "Go ahead, Trip."

"I wanted to let you know that Malcolm's gonna be okay. Phlox's keeping him overnight, though, as a precaution."

Archer chuckled. "Malcolm must be overjoyed."

"Ah – I'd avoid close contact with him for a few hours, at least until after he's been returned to his beloved Armoury."

Trip always succeeded in brightening up the mood. "I might allow him to launch a torpedo, when Phlox releases him, just to cheer him up a bit. Archer out."

Archer cut the connection and refocused on his SIC. She seemed, after the short conversation, even less reassured that he was still fit to command a starship.

"A torpedo would destroy any microbial life forms that might inhabit the planet, Captain," she said.

Archer smiled, leaning slightly towards her. "T'Pol, it was a _joke_."

"I see." Her eyebrows lifted. "If that is all…"

"By all means, Subcommander. Have a good night."

T'Pol headed for the exit. She pushed the button to open the door; then stopped and turned.

"We shall remain in orbit, then."

The words weren't shaped as an enquiry but her head tilted to one side, as if to put an unspoken question mark to the sentence.

"Let's give that signal a chance to re-materialise," Archer said.

The door closed behind her, and he leaned back in his chair. He was looking forward to a good night's sleep.

* * *

Archer lathered his arms and chest, humming a cheerful tune. He bent his head forward and revelled in the hot water running down his back. Ahhh! Nothing better than a shower to start the day.

After a few minutes, reluctantly, he turned the water off and stepped out of the small enclosure. He patted his chest and arms dry with his towel, flipped it over his head to dry his shoulders, and then tied it around his waist. He used a couple of tissues to wipe a circle in the steamed-up mirror.

Huh. Something felt funny, but he couldn't put his finger on it. With a shrug, he reached for his shaving equipment.

* * *

When he spied Malcolm in the corridor, coming from the opposite direction, Trip had no difficulty putting a smile on his lips. In fact, it was difficult to keep the smile from spreading too much. A night in Sickbay was, usually, sheer torture for the Lieutenant, and indeed the man looked quite pissed off. He was walking with purposeful strides, no doubt headed for his quarters, where he'd swap the sweat pants and shirt Phlox had to have given him for a fresh uniform. A shower and a shave would also be on his to-do list, judging by his dishevelled appearance. Time to rub it in.

"Morning, Lieutenant. Slept well?"

"Those sodding biobeds are as hard as rock," Malcolm grumbled as they passed each other. "You'd think they'd design something a bit more comfortable," he complained as he walked on, "for people who need to stay in Sickbay."

"I'll see you in the Mess Hall?" Trip asked, stopping and calling after his friend.

Malcolm stopped too, and turned. "And the Doctor should really keep his _pets_ somewhere else," he went on protesting, "especially if he bloody needs to feed them in the middle of the night!" He blew out a calming breath. "Yeah," he finally replied, in a different tone of voice. "Just give me ten minutes."

Trip couldn't imagine getting ready in ten minutes, but – hey – this was Malcolm Reed, Mister Discipline.

"I'll get ya a few pancakes," Trip called,as Malcolm disappeared around the bend.

* * *

"Yes, yes, I'll give you breakfast in a moment."

Porthos was running around him looking rather agitated, and Archer wondered briefly if he had forgotten to feed him the previous night. He thrust one arm into his black shirt, pulling on the sleeve, which seemed a bit long, and did the cuff button. Porthos let out a tentative bark, and Archer frowned.

"Hungry this morning, aren't we?"

He grabbed his jumpsuit. Hell, he must complain to the Quartermaster, he mused as he zipped it up; the man had sent the wrong size of uniform. A bit big, though not by much, really. He wasn't in the mood for taking everything off again, so for today it would have to do. Boots...

"YES, Porthos, one moment!"

Archer stood up and almost tripped over his feet as he went to the cabinet on top of which he kept the beagle's food. He reached for the dog's bowl and... Hold on a moment – _reached_?

* * *

"Why haven't we broken orbit yet?" Malcolm enquired, glancing briefly at his friends around the table. His gaze lingered on Hoshi, who was licking a bit of jam off her index finger. He couldn't help but notice that the lovely linguist managed to turn even _that_ into something worth watching.

"The Captain wants to stick around another day or so," she replied matter-of-factly, oblivious to his thoughts. "Wants to see if that signal reappears."

Her gaze finally met his, and Malcolm knew he'd been caught staring. She didn't seem to mind, judging by her smile, but he did. Every time he found himself with Hoshi in the Mess Hall, he was reminded of the incident where he'd misinterpreted her inquiry of his food tastes and thought she was coming on to him. He'd made an utter fool of himself that time, and he didn't want a repeat.

"Might take advantage of the pit stop and purge a few systems," Trip drawled around whatever food was in his mouth. Trip's breakfasts were quite a feast.

"Good idea," Malcolm agreed. "At least the time won't be entirely wasted." He spread peanut butter on his pancake, wondering what useful use he could make of the day.

"Has Phlox found out what happened to you on that planet?" Hoshi asked nonchalantly before taking a bite of her toast.

Her gaze stayed on Malcolm while she munched on it, waiting for a reply. Did she know how distracting that could be?

"Malcolm?"

"Uh – it was… nothing," he stuttered. "Probably something I ate." He didn't want the conversation to go anywhere near the Sickbay or his personal shortcomings – he'd rather forget about the entire away mission incident. Blimey! Fainting in an EV suit while in front of his Captain! Phlox had been quite perplexed. "You're a fascinating subject of research," the doctor had said, for once with a frown. "I consider myself quite privileged to have you on board."

Brilliant. He must remember to give the Doctor a wide berth, when not absolutely necessary to be in his presence.

"Ah-ha, here comes our resident Vulcan," Trip said.

Malcolm was glad for the distraction. He turned to look at their SIC, who was heading for the Captain's Mess; then back at Trip. There was a glint in his eyes. It was incredible how the man's opinion of T'Pol had changed since the beginning of their mission in space. On the other hand, T'Pol had proven to be slightly different from your typical Vulcan. At least she didn't share her species' widespread belief that Humans had no place in deep space.

The clock above the Mess Hall doors showed 7:29. "Punctual as ever," Malcolm noted.

They watched her raise a hand to the bell to the Captain's Mess, but before she could ring it, the door opened and she found herself face to face with Archer. They remained like that, like frozen in time, looking at each other in silence.

Trip frowned pensively. "There's something weird…"

Hoshi put down her toast. "You could say that," she said in awe.

Malcolm blinked. The only words that came to his lips belonged to a recent nightmare.

"What the hell happened to the Captain?"

TBC

As always looking forward to your reviews.


	2. Chapter 2

Happy New Year to all my readers and reviewers!

§ 2 §

Trip and Malcolm had been summoned to the Captain's Mess, into which Archer had retreated like a hermit crab into its shell. Well, parading _like that _in front of the breakfasting A-shift wouldn't be something the Captain particularly wanted to do, Malcolm mused. He would at least first want to change into a better-fitting uniform.

A rather awkward silence had fallen after the initial expressions of bewilderment. As they waited for Phlox, Archer had taken to pacing. The man was on his umpteenth lap of the table. Presently, he passed in front of Malcolm and shot him a concerned look, and Malcolm noted with an inner start that he was almost level with the green eyes. Archer still had a slight edge over him, but not much. On instinct, as soon as the Captain had passed, Malcolm checked himself; there was no telling if and when he'd start shrinking too.

"Watch it, Capt'n," Trip said solicitously, steadying his stumbling CO.

The engineer eyed Archer's overlarge boots and bit his lip. It was a worried reaction, not a humorous one, but Malcolm was aware of the fact that if this wasn't a serious situation, there would be plenty to laugh about. In his loosely fitting clothing, Archer right now looked a lot like Dopey.

The chime rang and they all turned to the door. T'Pol, who was closest, pressed the release button to reveal the Quartermaster with a neatly folded uniform on one arm and a pair of boots in hand. T'Pol took the items and dismissed the wide-eyed man.

"Your… new garb," she said, turning to hand it over.

Archer grimaced.

"You'll feel a lot better in it," Trip soothed.

Somehow Malcolm doubted that, although the man would at least look more dignified.

"Damn it, Capt'n! Why didn't you call Phlox right away?" Trip suddenly burst out, seemingly unable to take the tension any longer.

Archer raked a hand through his hair. "I couldn't believe I was…" He sighed; then resumed, "I didn't think it was possible. Until I found myself face to face with T'Pol. At that point I couldn't deny it any more."

The door chime rang again. This time it _was_ Phlox. Only a couple of minutes had to have passed after Trip had summoned him, but the heavy mood had made it feel a lot longer.

Phlox entered, looked at the Captain, and let out an intrigued high-pitched 'hmm.' His bright blue eyes ran his patient up and down in a professional visual scan, before he reached for a more sophisticated diagnostic instrument. For a long moment, only the soft buzz of his medical scanner was heard in the room.

"This is quite extraordinary," Phlox eventually said, looking at his readings. Bluntly, he added, "Your molecules are shrinking."

Archer frowned. "You mean they still are? That _this_," – and he raised an arm, showing the extra-long sleeve – "is only the beginning?"

"As far as I can tell, yes." Phlox lowered his scanner. "I'll need you in Sickbay for more extensive tests, Captain."

"How about Malcolm?" Archer enquired, shooting a puzzled glance in his direction. "Why isn't he shrinking? Not that I'd want him to," he quickly added, realising how that sounded.

_God forbid_, Malcolm silently prayed. He was already quite self-conscious about his height – or lack thereof. With apprehension, he watched Phlox approach him and raise his scanner again. After a moment, the Doctor's eyebrows lifted.

"I don't know, but he isn't," he declared.

Malcolm let out the breath he'd been holding.

"There has to be a logical explanation," T'Pol calmly put in. "I shall assist the Doctor in finding it."

"I cure would also be nice," Archer said darkly.

T'Pol latched her hands behind her back. "Captain, one will likely lead to the other."

Her inveterate calm had the usual effect of amplifying their human reactions and making them seem excessive.

"All right, all right," Archer muttered. He gave them a tight-lipped smile. "And now, if you don't mind, I'll change my _garb_ in private."

* * *

Trip stepped onto the Bridge and looked around. The Captain's chair was empty. Archer was still in Sickbay, Phlox's captive. T'Pol's station was also vacant. Hoshi glanced briefly his way, acknowledging his arrival. She was pressing a hand on her earpiece, and had that look of frustrated intensity about her. On the other side of the Bridge, Malcolm nodded gravely, arms tightly crossed over his chest.

Trip's eye was caught by Travis, who had turned around all the way and had bewilderment written all over his face.

"Is it true that the Captain...?"

"Yeah," Trip said. "A couple of inches."

Travis let out a soft whistle; then turned pensively back to his job – which, since they were currently orbiting the planet of their latest mishap, didn't amount, in truth, to much.

"Any news from Sickbay?" Malcolm enquired.

"Not yet." Trip went down the few steps to the lower level and grabbed the railing in front of Hoshi's station, leaning on outstretched arms. "What about that signal? Any trace of it?"

The linguist shook her head in denial, mouth twisting in a lopsided smirk. "It was very soft to begin with. I haven't heard it since."

"That's highly suspicious," Malcolm commented.

_Says the resident paranoid_, Trip silently added. He turned to give him a meaningful look.

"I'm serious, Commander," Malcolm went on with narrowed eyes. "It's the perfect strategy. Lure us with a mysterious call, infect us with a bloody virus that will shrink us to the size of midgets, and then attack us." With a sarcastic huff, he added, "It's brilliant in its wickedness."

"And also probably a figment of your wild imagination."

Travis slowly swivelled his chair, clouds gathering in his gaze as he obviously mulled the possibility that their Armoury Officer's dark predictions might be true.

Voice dropping another octave, Malcolm concluded, "I think the Captain should be quarantined."

_Yeah, and maybe you too, until Phlox can cure your paranoia._ Trip bit his lip before he said that aloud. Engaging Malcolm's eyes, he instead said, firmly, "Let's leave that decision to the ship's doctor, Lieutenant."

"When it will be too late," Malcolm retorted.

Gawd, Trip hated when Malcolm got all pessimistic. Much as they were friends, the two of them would always lock horns when it came to their basic outlook on things. "Look, I refuse to take into consideration the conspiracy theory without any evidence of it," he said, feeling good about putting a bit of his own optimism on the balance.

"_Sir_, it's my precise job to-"

"Yeah, yeah, but keep your gloomy conjectures to yourself, alright?"

There was a moment of silence, in which Trip realised that Travis and Hoshi had stopped what they'd been doing to follow their bickering.

"Aye, Sir," Malcolm eventually hissed.

Trip stretched his neck, as if to get rid of a kink; then took a seat in the Captain's chair. Everyone returned to concentrating on their respective stations.

It wasn't long before T'Pol arrived. Trip stood up, eager for news.

"I am having the Captain's EV suit examined," she said, joining him in the command well.

"But there can't have been a leak," Trip burst out. "Hell, the Capt'n would've noticed! There are all kinds of warning indicators!"

"The atmosphere on the planet is such that a fissure in the Captain's suit would not have caused a hazard to his life, therefore some of the warnings would have been deactivated. And although I agree that it is highly improbable and quite illogical to suppose there might have been a failure in his suit, it remains a possibility, however marginal."

As Trip ran that through his mind again –T'Pol's language could be quite contorted and even less readily comprehensible than Malcolm's thickest accent – the Vulcan shifted her gaze to the image of the planet, which took most of the viewscreen.

"In the meantime I have ordered the Quartermaster to prepare a few sets of new uniforms," she went on almost pensively.

"A couple would've done," Trip commented absently. "The Capt'n isn't gonna change them so often."

Crossing her arms loosely over her chest, T'Pol turned, and her dark eyes tracked back to Trip, eyebrows lifting. "I asked him to downsize each by two and a half inches," she specified.

"Ya mean..."

"I have calculated the Captain's rate of contraction to be one point zero two inches every hour."

That's when Trip really started to worry.

* * *

Archer didn't know what was worse: this shrinking thing, or having to stand Phlox's sounds as the Doctor passed him through the sieve. The man seemed to have an inexhaustible variety of _hmms_ in his repertoire, and they were beginning to get on his nerves.

Besides, despite Phlox's very professional manners, being examined _this thoroughly_ wasn't the way he'd willingly choose to start a day. At the moment the Doctor had his face inches from Archer's right foot, and was scraping with some instrument of torture under his toenail, which made Archer utterly ill-at-ease.

"Er – I took a shower, this morning," Archer said, leaning back on his elbows, as he regarded the operation with a wary eye. He was trying hard not to give in to an urge to kick free of Phlox's hold. The reply was another _Hm-hm_, one that seemed to say, "Yes, I suppose you did."

"Like every morning, not to mention most nights," Archer insisted. "Don't you think that would've washed away any..." He grimaced, looking for the right word. "_… contaminants_?"

"It might have – or might have not."

"For heaven's sake, Phlox! What are you hoping to find there? I was inside an EV suit!" Archer blew out a breath. "How do you suppose I got... _infected_ inside one of those damn things? They are made to be airtight, watertight, _helltight_!"

"I won't know until I find out," was the calm reply. "Very well," Phlox finally said, straightening and breaking into one of his smiles. "I believe that will be all, for the time being. Don't forget to contact me if the analgesic wears out and your aches and pains get too bothersome."

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Archer pushed to a sitting position, legs dangling from the side of the biobed. He could swear that when he'd come to sit on the thing, the floor hadn't been so far away. He grabbed his uniform and started pulling it on.

"Does that mean that I'm free to go?" he enquired in a small voice.

On one hand, he was afraid the Doctor would want to keep him; on the other, he wasn't keen on walking through the ship. By now the grapevine must have reached the lowest crewman on board, and he already felt enough of an oddity without having to endure people's furtive glances.

"Hm? Ah. Yes. I'll page you in case I have any news, or if I need you to come back," Phlox said, already absorbed in his research at his computer desk.

"Won't I… be dangerous to the rest of the crew?"

Phlox looked at him with his cherubic blue eyes. "After you came back from the planet, Captain, you've spent all of last evening mingling with them. If you are dangerous, the damage is already done."

_Right_. Archer pulled his sleeve, and almost freaked out to see that once again it was rather long. "Well, I hope you come up with something before long," he said, hoping Phlox wouldn't detect his panic. "In a couple of days I'll be riding around the ship on Porthos's back."

Phlox only commented with an indistinct guttural sound. So Archer pushed off with his hands and jumped off the biobed.

_So that's how Malcolm did it_.

TBC

Any reviews will make this lady happy :-)


	3. Chapter 3

Have a good start of 2011!

§ 3 §

Trip stopped in front of his captain's door and glanced right and left. In fifteen minutes he was due in Engineering. His feet had taken him here – and his heart too, to be sure – but he was still wary of raising his hand to the bell. After Sickbay, Archer had buried himself in his quarters, and no one had seen him in all of twenty-four hours, not even his steward, who'd been ordered to leave the food tray on the floor in the corridor. T'Pol had reported hearing the water-polo ball bouncing off the wall that separated their quarters for a while, but then that had ceased too.

The worst thing was that Trip didn't have any good news to report. Phlox was still in the dark as to the cause of this weird phenomenon, and T'Pol had failed to come up with anything to help him. So his was really just a friendly how-are-you-doing visit. His cowardly self suggested that it might embarrass Archer.

Nah. Jon needed a friend, right now, and if he – Trip – kept away, the man would feel like his closest friend had betrayed him. Squaring his shoulders, he pressed the bell button.

"Who is it?" a voice he didn't quite recognise replied after a long moment. The pitch was wrong, slightly higher than normal.

"Capt'n?" Trip wondered aghast. _Great start_, his cowardly self whispered. He winced. "It's me, Trip."

"Go away."

The streak of stubbornness was quite familiar, though. "Capt'n, please," Trip insisted, forehead on the door. "You can't hide in there forever."

There was a silence for a few moments before the voice came back glumly, "A few more days will be enough. Then I'll be able to go around the ship without anyone actually seeing me."

Trip groaned inside. Unexpectedly, the door swished open, startling him so much that he jerked his head back.

"Then maybe someone will accidentally trample me," Archer went on, "and put me out of my misery."

All Trip could do not to gape was blink a couple of times and force out a choked, "May I come in?"

"You'd better, before anyone sees," Archer muttered.

Trip stepped inside the room, and the door closed behind him. He had prepared himself for this, making mental calculations according to T'Pol's "shrinkage rate", but it was still a shock, and he knew he wasn't quite capable of keeping it off his face. Archer, who had been taller than him, now came only up to his chest. Not even. The man must have lost… Well, he'd lost about the predicted twenty-four inches. He had shrunk proportionately, so that it wasn't like having a young boy in front of him: this was the same adult Jonathan Archer, just smaller.

"Capt'n," Trip finally was able to sputter.

He noticed that a pile of uniforms lay abandoned on a corner of the bed. Archer had put on a sweat suit, rolling up both sleeves and pant legs. They formed round bulges around his wrists and ankles, reminding Trip of a sheared French poodle, and the man still looked like he was wearing something three sizes too big. Porthos was in a corner of the room, muzzle on his paws. The beagle usually came running to Trip, but now he didn't even raise his head in greeting; only his eyes lifted, and he gave a very human sigh.

"Even he is in a bad mood," Archer said in that strange voice. He went to sit at his desk, where his breakfast lay abandoned like the uniforms, and poured himself a glass of whisky. "Won't offer you one, since you're going on duty," he muttered before downing his in one gulp.

Trip swallowed saliva instead. This was worse than he had expected. He'd never known Archer to react this way to a problem. Only once, that he could remember, had he buried himself in his quarters: when he'd thought they had annihilated that Paragaan colony. But then their mission had been revoked, they had been heading back to Earth, so he'd had some sort of excuse for slacking in his command duties.

"Capt'n, we'll get out of this one too," he said, slowly lowering himself on the bed, "as we always have."

"Sure," Archer chuckled mirthlessly. And he poured himself another glass.

Trip watched him in silence for a long moment. Archer's face was averted but he could still see the dark circles around his eyes; for sure he hadn't had much sleep the previous night. Worse than that, the man looked blank, as if his spirit had left him, and his mind had dulled. That last probably wasn't far from the truth, given the level of the whisky left in the bottle.

This was no good. A wave of anger drowned Trip's initial sympathy. "Captain, you have a ship to run," he said firmly.

"Right," Archer growled, turning abruptly like a wounded animal to shoot him a venomous glance. "And how do you suppose I do that?" He let out a sarcastic snort. "By tomorrow, I'll need someone to pick me up, if I want to sit on the Captain's chair."

"Well, someone will, then," Trip shot back, "or I'll build you a step ladder." Damn it! He couldn't stand seeing Archer, the _fearless warrior_, like this. "By tomorrow, maybe Phlox will have found a cure! You can't just sit here and brood – worse, piss yourself off!"

Archer gave him another murderous look. "If you've come here to tell me what to do – or what _not_ to do – you might as well leave."

Sensing the tension, Porthos let out a muffled whine. Trip glanced at him and felt bad, for the dog looked like a child who sees his parents arguing.

"T'Pol will run the ship," Archer continued in a darker voice. "She'll do a better job than… a diminutive man."

"Oh, come off it, Capt'n," Trip exploded. "Size doesn't matter!"

Trip heard himself say that, met Archer's eyes, and something sparked between them. They both guffawed, and the tension eased.

"I'm serious," Trip said mildly once the mirth had died down. "Think of Napoleon. Think of… Hell, think of Malcolm. He doesn't need to tower over his men to inspire respect." He shrugged. "T'Pol is a fine officer, but she lacks… a certain intuition. You are still the best person to run the show, and no one will argue that."

Archer's face crumpled. "I'm scared," he said hoarsely.

Trip felt his heart clench.

"Not of dying – God knows I've been prepared – but this? Where will it stop? Will I keep shrinking until I disappear, until I am no bigger than a damn germ?" Archer scrunched his eyes closed.

"Capt'n, I can't say," Trip choked out past the lump in his throat. "But I can tell ya that I'll be there for you, no matter what."

The mood had suddenly dropped again. It felt heavy and oppressing. Trip gave himself a mental slap. He had to shake out of this, and be strong for both of them.

"Do you really want to spend what might be your last hours alone and half drunk?" he forced out, managing a steady voice.

Archer looked up from his glass, startled. "You really think I should be in charge? You're not humouring me, are you?"

"Of course not." Trip jerked his head sideways, letting a mischievous smile play on his face. "Crew might crack a few jokes when you're turned the other way and not hearing, but I think you're a big enough man to take that."

Archer smirked; then, to Trip's relief, responded to his pun. "You might also have to build a high chair for the Mess."

"Anything you say, Sir." Trip smiled and got up. "I'll see you around, then?"

Archer sighed. "See you around."

* * *

The turbolift doors opened and Malcolm glanced in that direction to see who was there. There was no one. No, wait… He stretched his neck, his eyes having to track lower than expected. Blimey.

"Captain on the Bridge," he blurted out instinctively. He felt a blush rise at warp speed. Bloody hell, in two years he'd never ever said that once! Not after that first time when Archer had pointed out to him, in polite humour, that this wasn't the Bridge of the HMS Victory.

"_Thank you_, Lieutenant," Archer commented through clenched teeth, with a look that would've knocked him unconscious if it could.

"Sorry, Sir," Malcolm muttered.

He glanced around surreptitiously. Hoshi and Travis, the only two other officers on the Bridge, were suddenly finding their stations captivating. It felt totally contrived. The awkwardness was almost unbearable. Malcolm expected Archer to make a beeline for his ready room, but instead, to his admiring surprise, he went to the Captain's chair and sat down on it. Or rather, he perched himself on the edge of the seat. Restraining a wince, Malcolm realised that if the man had sat down properly his feet wouldn't have reached the floor.

Archer fixed his gaze on the planet that filled the viewscreen, boring into it as if he hoped he could wrench out its secret. His face was a mask. The Captain was carefully schooling his features, but Malcolm, who knew all about hiding feelings behind an impassable facade – he could hold master classes on the subject, for heaven's sake! – easily read Archer's disturbing mix of emotions. A shiver travelled down his spine. Damn it. He was his Security Officer; he should have prevented _this_. It was what he was paid to do. As long as the Captain had remained locked in his quarters, Malcolm had been able to keep the thought in a corner of his mind, but now that the evidence of his failure and the seriousness of the situation were in front of his eyes, it struck him like a blow in the stomach.

There was a clearing of the throat, and Malcolm refocused across the Bridge. Hoshi had lifted her gaze.

"It's good to see you, Captain," she said softly.

Travis looked at her; then swivelled his chair to cast a quick, "Yes, Sir. Indeed," before turning back.

Archer's face warmed for a moment. "So long as you still can," he said with a poor attempt at humour. No one even broke into a smile, so he added a quiet, "Thank you."

His voice had a slightly different pitch than usual, and Malcolm caught Hoshi's worried glance. He wished he could give her silent reassurance. A Security Officer should make people feel safe and in good hands, but he couldn't. He knew the linguist was as good as he was at reading behind a mask – in this case, his own – but right now the last thing he felt was reassured.

Abruptly, Archer stood up. "Lieutenant," he said quietly, and headed for the ready room.

Malcolm, heart pounding, slipped out of his seat. He couldn't think of standing alone with _this_ Archer in a restricted space, having to talk to him, look at him face to… Hell.

The door closed behind them, and the Captain turned. His green eyes sought him. Malcolm was vaguely aware of being as rigid as a broomstick while his mind formed the conscious thought that he was looking _down _on someone who, up until twenty-four hours before, had regularly made him self-conscious about his lack of centimetres.

"Relax, Lieutenant," Archer said, not bothering to hide the truth of how awkward this was for both of them. "I'm still the same man, more or less."

Malcolm made a show of letting his shoulders slump a bit. "Aye, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir," he blurted out.

"Yeah, you said that before," Archer commented deadpan.

Malcolm winced. This wasn't the last "I'm sorry" of the evening either, if he ever found the courage. He watched Archer begin to pace; the man automatically ducked his head a couple of times before realising the ceiling wasn't going to pose any danger to him now. Catching himself, Archer turned to mutter a mirthless, "Habits..." He looked fractionally more at ease, now that he had broken the ice, and Malcolm envied him, for he would still choose a battle to the death over this conversation.

"Sir, is there anything I can do?" Malcolm forced out, eager to come to the point.

"I don't know."

Archer stopped at the window and leaned with a shoulder against the bulkhead beside it.

The planet looked so innocuous out there. A harmless, round brownish sphere, like so many they had come across since the beginning of their mission.

"I've been thinking, and you know what? I believe there is a blank in my memories of that away mission."

"Captain?" Malcolm almost took a step towards Archer, stopping only at the thought that any proximity would accentuate their difference in height. "Have you told the Doctor, or T'Pol?"

"No, not yet," Archer said. "I'm not certain of it. I want to make sure I know what I'm talking about, because I could send them on a wild goose chase, and Phlox and T'Pol can't really waste any time if they are to try and stop me from-" He checked himself, and turned to Malcolm. "Did you… experience anything strange on that planet? Any weird sensations? Any of your famous gut feelings?"

Malcolm tightened his lips. All he had felt had been a weight on his stomach. "I'm afraid not, Sir," he said, shaking his head. "I wasn't feeling all that well. I… hadn't digested well."

Archer's eyebrows shot up. "Is that why you...?"

"It appears so."

"You could've told me, Malcolm. I would have taken someone else with me."

Right. But of course Reeds don't tell when they are sick. Reeds endure and carry out their duty without complaining.

"I became ill when we were already on the planet," Malcolm lied. Reeds didn't lie either, but this was a white lie. Or was it? _You might have prevented this, if you hadn't fainted like a bloody idiot_ – his inner voice reminded him.

"I am sorry, Sir. I failed in my duty to protect you." There, he had said it.

Archer sighed impatiently. "Stop saying you're _sorry_. You didn't fail me, for heaven's sake; you were sick! And we don't know that you could've done anything, anyway."

Archer's strange pitch and height made his outburst rather surreal. It wasn't the same thing as standing in front of someone who looked down on you. Maybe the man had to get used to this and adjust the way he delivered his emotions. After all, he – Malcolm – didn't have any trouble inspiring respect and even fear in his men. But then again, he had lived with his lack of height since childhood.

Archer's eyes narrowed. "Something is missing from the picture, I'm almost certain of it, and yet… I'm not," he concluded in frustration.

There was a long moment of silence. It felt endless, but in the end, Archer finally broke it.

"I guess you may go," he said to Malcolm's relief. "If you happen to remember anything else, anything at all, please report to me immediately."

"Aye, Sir."

Malcolm turned without ado and pressed the door release, leaving his Captain to gaze pensively on the brown sphere outside his window.

TBC

Looking forward to your comments.


	4. Chapter 4

Here is another chapter, one that hopefully will make you smile!

§ 4 §

Malcolm woke up with a start. Was it a dream or…

_Bloody, bloody, bloody_…

Slowly, he turned and pushed to a sitting position, hands on the edge of his bed, eyes staring into the darkness. He stayed like that for a long time, racking his brain for the truth. No, it had been too vivid, he finally decided. It couldn't have been a dream. He hadn't fainted because of his bad digestion; that might have had a part in it, but hadn't been the _triggering_ cause of his fainting fit. There had been… something; a zap, a flash, a… weird phenomenon. It had engulfed Archer and then…

Then, just when a Security Officer should have proven his usefulness, he had slumped to the ground like a bag of potatoes. Brilliant. And now the Captain was-

At the thought of how much smaller Archer would have become in the few hours since they'd last met in the ready room, Malcolm scrunched his eyes closed. He catapulted himself to a standing position. He had to tell someone, but _who_? The Captain? The man had told him to report to him immediately if he remembered anything, but this was the middle of the night. The mere thought of knocking on Archer's door at this hour made him cringe. The Second Officer? Again - he couldn't barge into T'Pol's quarters in the middle of the night! _You dumb_, that voice immediately said, _this is important, and it doesn't matter if the SIC of this ship happens to be a beautiful woman wearing scanty pyjamas_. No, no, not T'Pol – he told the voice sternly. Not after the time that wisp had taken him over and led him to make lewd advances to the woman in her quarters.

There was Trip. He felt a lot more comfortable waking Trip up.

* * *

Archer woke with a start.

He stayed very still, almost afraid to move. Definitely afraid to move. His spatial perception was continually changing, and now, even without moving a finger, he felt the bed around him to be excessively large. He had gone to sleep in his skivvies, but even _they_ felt excessively large. He didn't want to think what that meant, in terms of centimetres, so he forced his mind back to what had woken him. Was it a dream or…

Maybe, just _maybe_, it was the missing piece; what he'd sensed he couldn't remember. It couldn't have been a dream, could it? Everything had been so clear, and so responding to the truth. It _had_ to be a recollection. He had told them he'd seen Malcolm faint, but now he'd obviously remembered: he hadn't actually _seen_ Malcolm _slumping_ to the ground; the man had been _on_ the ground, unconscious. That was because something had gone through himself and… he'd missed a beat, so to speak. Strange that he should have forgotten, there and then. Come to think of it, strange that Malcolm should have forgotten. Unless he had already been unconscious by then.

He must speak to the man.

Cringing, he ordered the light on and looked down himself. He felt like switching the light off and curling up under the covers again. Instead, uttering a few silent curses, he gave himself a mental slap and slipped off the bed, which proved a task in itself.

He must be less than a metre tall by now, he calculated. Everything around him felt so damn huge. Porthos raised his head, and Archer took a wary look at his beagle. What had been an inoffensive pet could turn, any moment, into a fearful enemy. To his relief, Porthos yawned and lowered his head again.

_Page Malcolm_, Archer reminded himself. He walked to his desk and climbed – literally – on his chair. He pressed the comm link open. "Archer to Reed." His voice was faint and almost childish, but he threw even that in a corner of his mind.

There was no reply.

Cursing some more, he jumped off his chair and…

_Damn!_

He couldn't exactly go around the ship in overlarge skivvies. The Quartermaster hadn't downsized enough uniforms. Or, rather, downsized uniforms _enough_. He looked around the room. He needed… Yes.

Followed by Porthos now, who had given up on sleep, Archer went into his bathroom, climbed on the stool, and got his robe, which was hanging on a hook. He rolled the sleeves up, thrust his arms into them, crossed the two edges of the enormous garment in front of him, turned the belt around his waist a couple of times and tied it. He was swimming in it, but it was better than nothing. _Now, all I need are a couple of stilts_, he thought dryly. Ah, what the hell. Holding up the hem of the robe, he jumped off the stool; then went to the door. Here he found that he could still reach the panel – _if_ he went on his tiptoes. _Not for long_, he mulled despondently, stretching to trigger the door open.

His determination threatened to vanish again at the sight of the huge corridor in front of him. He'd be the laughingstock of the ship, walking around in a robe that was so many sizes too big he had to hold it up in the front and dragged behind him like the train of a wedding gown. He felt like a cartoon-like figure, the caricature of a midget king. But Trip was right: he wasn't going to brood alone in his quarters. Porthos was beside him, tongue dangling and eyes begging _Are we going for a walk?_ His pet wasn't judging him by his appearance. Hopefully nor would his friends and crew.

Drawing a deep breath, Archer stepped out, with Porthos following happily in his wake. He was glad for the company; it gave him a bit of courage, silly as that might be. Bunching up the front of his robe, he started on his way to Malcolm's quarters.

This being the middle of the night, the ship was quiet. Most of the crew were sleeping. Archer thanked God for that, and that the turbolift's buttons were also within his reach. He got to B deck and walked to his destination, thankfully without meeting anyone. At Malcolm's door, he did another stretching session to reach the bell. He pressed it repeatedly, but there was no answer.

Where the hell was the Lieutenant?

Archer looked right and left. Should he go back to his quarters? Porthos gave a muffled bark, wanting to keep going. "Quiet," Archer told him.

Maybe he could wake Trip up. He needed to talk to someone, and who better than Trip?

* * *

Hoshi woke with a start.

Quickly, she sat up and turned on the light. Her heart was racing with the last strands of memories from her nightmare. In her dream, the Captain had shrunk to the size of an ant, and had been running frantically around the ship trying to escape the soles of the crew. He had made it to Sickbay, where Phlox had picked him up, uttered one of his "hmm's" and, with a shrug, fed him to his menagerie.

Hoshi bit her lip. All this wouldn't be happening if she'd been able to understand what that faint signal had meant, or managed to pick it up again. She had to try harder.

She threw her legs off the bed. In a matter of minutes she had washed her face, donned a uniform, and was leaving her quarters. On the Bridge, she strode determinedly to the communications station, manned by Johansson, a Gamma shift crewman who seemed more relieved than surprised to see her.

"Ma'am," the young man said as soon as she was close enough. "I was about to page you."

"Oh?" Hoshi frowned. "What about?"

On Johansson's elongated face, his eyes became mere slits. "That signal… I've picked it up again."

* * *

Malcolm had been standing like an idiot in front of Trip's door for the past couple of minutes, debating whether he was really going to wake his friend up at o-three-hundred-something to tell him he _thought_ he had remembered something from their away mission but-on-the-other-hand-it-might-have-been-a dream, when he heard a shrill voice say, in an urgent but clearly restrained tone, "Not so fast, Porthos!"

Horrified to come face to face with Archer again, against all logic he looked around for a place to hide, but of course those clowns in Starfleet's Design Department had made corridors as smooth as a bald man's head. Hadn't consulted with any security officers, had they? Not that they should anticipate a crew member trying to escape his captain, but you could want to hide from an enemy, couldn't you?

No, you couldn't. Bloody hell!

Malcolm's mind frantically searched for a way to explain why he was standing in front of Trip's door in shorts and T-shirt at this hour, but drew a blank. His only option was to sprint the other- Too late.

"Porthos, come here!"

Porthos – and Malcolm wondered if Archer's new format had anything to do with it – totally disregarded his master's order and ran up to him with a friendly bark. A second later, a curious figure appeared. It had the Captain's face but looked more like a medieval court jester.

Malcolm snapped to attention, which he normally wouldn't have done in both their state of undress. But the changes in Archer made things complicated, twisting every interaction he had with the man. He felt Archer would feel disparaged if he didn't show him the respect a captain deserved.

"Sir!" he said Marine-like, eyes straight ahead. He'd always had a difficult time doing that and _not_ looking at Archer's face, but now his aim was well above the man's head. With his peripheral vision, he saw the Captain stop dead in his tracks.

"Lieutenant," he sputtered in that terribly wrong voice.

It was impossible to resist the temptation. Malcolm's gaze flicked to his CO, whose cheeks were beginning to take an uncharacteristic pink colour. Archer blushing was a horrible sight. Malcolm resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes closed, but neither could he shift them away. He'd been caught looking, and it would seem contrived.

"Er – taking Porthos for a walk, Sir?" he made himself ask.

"Uh – yeah. More like Porthos is taking me."

Hearing his name, Porthos gave another happy bark.

"Quiet!" Archer scolded him. The rebuke, in that almost adolescent voice, didn't carry the same impact, but this time Porthos sat down obediently. "And – ah – what are you doing here, if I may ask?" his master continued.

"I – uhm…"

Malcolm faltered, finding no joy in the fact that he wasn't the only one giving a poor example of eloquence. Lots of _er_s and _uh_s and _ah_s and _uhm_s from both sides.

He was saved by Trip's door, which suddenly swished open. A bleary-eyed, tousled, barefoot and underwear-clad Tucker appeared.

"Would you mind removin' yourselves and your conversation?" he complained. "This is a big ship and..."

As soon as he took in the small figure in the overlarge robe, he faltered and was instantly wide awake. His face crumpled in an expression of remorse.

"Capt'n, I'm sorry," he muttered contritely.

It wasn't clear if he was sorry about Archer's further shrinkage, or his own outburst. An awkward silence took centre stage.

"I… had a strange dream," Archer finally croaked out. His mouth tensed in a brief humourless smile, and he raised his gaze to Trip. "I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd take Porthos for a walk."

"Like _that_?" Trip blurted out.

His words skidded on Malcolm's consciousness like a stone on water. His mind was too busy analysing Archer's pronouncement. Maybe he could after all venture to tell the man about his own nightmare. "How odd," he said, carefully. "The same happened to me. I had a strange dream and… I… well, I came to..."

Trip's eyes shifted from Malcolm to Archer and back. In the frown that accompanied them, Malcolm could read that the man was coming to the conclusion that it wasn't accidental he'd found them outside his door.

Trip stepped aside and waved a hand. "Want to compare dreams?"

Archer accepted the invitation promptly. He crossed the threshold into Trip's room, looking relieved to remove himself from the corridor. Porthos followed him at a trot. Malcolm hesitated, but Trip gave him a get-a-move-on jerk of the head and, in truth, he could not refuse at this point. There was nothing left for him to do but join the party.

* * *

Hoshi closed her eyes, the better to concentrate on the faint sounds she was finally hearing again. She was recording them, just in case they disappeared as quickly as the first time, but it didn't seem the case. The sounds were coming in a flood, with hardly any interruptions.

They were soft and melodious, and she was sure they were the product of an intelligent mind, a new language for the discovering. There was a rising and falling of the pitch, and then small pauses and staccato sections. Her UT was working, trying to untangle the mystery, but she was already starting to recognise patterns and similarities with other exo-languages.

* * *

"You go first," Archer ordered.

With incredible nonchalance and a laid-back "let me help ya," Trip had picked him up like a small kid and put him on his desk chair. The Captain had hissed a "thank-you," but then had settled on the seat, his robe almost reaching the ground, and covering his legs, and turned to Malcolm, who had come to stand a couple of metres away.

"It was…" Malcolm gave a tense shrug. "…a strange dream. Probably. A dream. _Probably_ a dream, I mean," he clarified. Archer made an impatient gesture with one hand, and he continued, "I dreamt _something _had happened just before I fainted. To you. Something had happened to you. Something had happened to you, _Sir_." He sounded like an idiot.

"No kidding," Archer commented deadpan.

Malcolm cringed. "I mean-"

"I know, I know," the Captain waved him off. He uttered a pensive grunt. "It's exactly the same dream I had."

Trip, who was watching them with his hands on his hips, lit up like a Christmas tree. "That means it can't be a dream. It's got to be true! It must be the key to your…" His eyebrows shot up. "_Change_." He turned to Malcolm. "Can't you be a bit more specific than _something happened_?"

Malcolm pulled on his neck, displeased with himself. He had the training to notice things, but not this time. "Not really," he had to admit. "All I know is that a strange phenomenon engulfed the Captain, and then I lost consciousness."

"It was like a shockwave," Archer filled in. "It hit me; went through me and… Well, the next I knew, Malcolm was unconscious on the ground. I hadn't remembered until tonight."

Just then the door chime rang. With a frown, Trip went to answer it, followed by Porthos. Hoshi and T'Pol stood in the corridor.

"Well, hello," Trip said. "Did you have a bad dream too?"

T'Pol's eyebrows lifted. "Internal sensors indicate that Captain Archer is in your quarters," she said, ignoring the gibe.

Trip smiled. "Come on in. We're having a party."

"Trip!" Archer barked, and it sobered the man up instantly.

"Ensign Sato has picked up the signal again." T'Pol informed them once they were all inside.

"I have, Captain," Hoshi butted in excitedly.

Malcolm couldn't but admire her for not gaping at Archer's size. With T'Pol it was understandable, but Hoshi…

"And I know what it says," the linguist exclaimed.

Archer's eyes went wide. "What does it say?"

Hoshi took a deep breath. "Return to us. We await you."

TBC

Looking forward to any reviews


	5. Chapter 5

A great big thank you to my reviewers! You make my day.

§ 5 §

"_Who_ should return?" Malcolm asked in a cutting voice. "_Who_ is being awaited? There's nothing to say that that person is you, Captain."

From what felt like a throne – Trip's chair – Archer watched his Security Officer cross his arms over his chest, as if to close the discussion.

"Besides, who the hell are _they_?" Trip wondered, leaning with his back against the wall.

His arms were also crossed over his chest, but not quite as if he was trying to squeeze out each and every molecule of air between them, like Malcolm's.

"And return _where_?" Hoshi put in. "_They_ didn't give any coordinates."

Even T'Pol crossed her arms, managing to turn the simple gesture into something exotic.

"Ensign," she said, "if the message is for the Captain, it is logical to assume the _where_ is the planet we are orbiting, at the coordinates where he and Lieutenant Reed were transported two days ago."

Malcolm's expression turned to outrage. "I can't believe you are saying that, Subcommander!" he shot back. "We don't _know_ the message is for the Captain, and we can all see what good it does to answer all the bloody signals we happen to pick up!"

T'Pol raised her eyebrows, unruffled. "I simply made a hypothesis, Lieutenant, and a logical deduction. I did not say the message _was_ for the Captain."

"You seemed to imply it."

"That is an incorrect assumption."

At which Trip felt the need to butt in, "And to assume makes an ass of you and me."

Porthos was getting agitated, and Archer had just about had enough of seeing his officers bicker like parents over a child. He may be the right size, but he wasn't a child, for heaven's sake.

"Will you be quiet, all of you?" he exploded. Silence fell like a guillotine. He waited a few seconds for impact – in his new form he needed any help he could get in that department – then took a deep breath. "I don't care who is who and where is where," he said firmly. "I have decided I'm going back, and _that _is _that_."

All eyes converged on him, with various degrees of unease and bewilderment; then Trip decided to put on his charming smile and utter one of his defusing comments. "Is there an echo in the room?" he quipped.

It won him an incinerating look from Malcolm, but Archer, unexpectedly, felt a chuckle bubble up. What the hell. He was so desperate he was almost past the point of worrying. He might still end up disappearing from the starship Enterprise, but he was sure as hell going to try to do something about it, and here was the first clue that something, maybe, _could_ be done about it.

"I feel obliged to remind you that Starfleet regulations forbid a captain to leave the ship unaccompanied," T'Pol said.

At which Malcolm must have felt called into question. "Captain," he began, looking ready for battle.

Archer didn't want to get into an argument. "Dismissed, all of you," he tersely ordered, cutting him off.

The guillotine slammed down again and silence reigned for a few seconds. Trip was the first to break it.

"Er… these are _my_ quarters, Capt'n," he reminded him hesitantly.

Great.

Before anyone picked him up again, Archer let himself slip off the chair. "T'Pol, get the Quartermaster to work faster," he muttered irritably, gathering his robe so he wouldn't lose whatever was left of his dignity by tripping over it. "The man doesn't have to do a perfect job, for heaven's sake. I can live without piping around my shoulders or fifteen pockets on each limb."

Short as he was, he couldn't even get the satisfaction of storming out. Good thing the dog following him was a beagle and not a Great Dane.

* * *

"May I have a word with you, Subcommander?"

T'Pol thought Lieutenant Reed had walked her to her quarters out of courtesy, but now, as she stopped in front of her door, saw that she had made a wrong assumption. Commander Tucker's words about the lack of cleverness in those who were quick to assume things still rang in her ears, making her eyebrows lift. Reed immediately blanched and took a step back, as if hit by weapons' fire.

"Ah – perhaps this can wait until tomorrow," he mumbled.

He was suddenly hesitant, almost afraid. That wasn't altogether foreign to him and had always intrigued her, because it contrasted so deeply with the other side of his character, the one that was courageous and self-assured. "It is fine," T'Pol said, triggering the door open. "You may come in."

"You must be tired," Reed said, back-pedalling some more. "You can drop in the Armoury tom-"

"Lieutenant," T'Pol interrupted, "something is clearly on your mind. It is best you unburden yourself now." She went inside and turned. Reed followed slowly, as if entering a mine field, casting wary looks around. T'Pol resisted the illogical urge to do the same.

"I… don't think it's appropriate for me to…" Reed stretched his neck. "Not after… you know… _that_ time."

It took T'Pol a moment to decipher the words. "If you are referring to the time the ship was taken over by those Wisps, Lieutenant, I bear no resentment," she reassured him. "That time you were not yourself."

Reed nodded, but his discomfort didn't ease, and T'Pol wondered for the first time what were the man's most secret feelings about what that Wisp had done while in control of his body. Perhaps it was safer not to know.

"What did you want to discuss, Lieutenant?" she prompted.

"The Captain's wish to return to that planet," he replied, this time without hesitation. "That is the stupidest idea I've heard in a long time."

His self-confident side had definitely taken over again. Indeed, it seemed safe to _assume_, now, that Lieutenant Reed was what Commander Tucker called "pissed-off." T'Pol blinked, so as to centre herself against the onslaught of such intense feelings. "As I reminded the Captain, Starfleet regulations forbid a Starfleet captain to leave the ship unaccompanied. I will insist you should accompany him."

"A lot of good that did the first time," Reed muttered, forgetting she had Vulcan hearing.

"This is not the time to have self doubts, Lieutenant." She saw a flash of annoyance in his grey eyes as he realised he'd been overheard, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"And what exactly is the Captain going to wear, for one?" he retorted in a clipped accent. "We can't downsize an EV suit, and they don't come in children's sizes."

T'Pol heaved another, this time inner, sigh. Reed could be difficult when he set his mind to it. "As you may remember, on your first away mission the use of EV suits was only a precaution. The planet's atmosphere becomes poisonous to human physiology only after many hours of exposure," she countered calmly.

"But look what happened! And we still don't know how or why!" Reed narrowed his eyes dangerously. "You always point out how illogical we Humans are. So tell me: where is the logic in going back down there?"

He had a point. Or did he? T'Pol was beginning to feel a bit confused. With the pending crisis, she had not taken the time to meditate. "Because we have not found what caused the Captain's molecules to shrink, Lieutenant, it may well be that our only answer is indeed on the planet," she reasoned. "I recommend we keep an open mind." Reed made to reply to that, but she anticipated him. "We shall reconvene at o-eight-hundred in the situation room and discuss this with all the senior staff."

As a dismissal, it was a bit abrupt. Reed looked hard pressed keeping his mouth shut. Eventually, though, his strong discipline had the better of him, and with a firm, military nod he turned to leave, looking just as frustrated as when he'd come in.

* * *

Trip had not been able to go back to sleep after his quarters had emptied. It had only been about three hours before his alarm was set to go off, anyway, so he'd showered and got himself a cup of coffee before returning to his room and burying himself in the malfunctions report. There was always something to fix, and though the Captain's predicament had him quite worried, he could not forget his Chief Engineer's duties.

Four hours later he was still thinking about who should be the poor devil he'd assign to solving the problem that was ailing Chef's processor – the man became rather intractable when his galley wasn't running at 100 percent efficiency – when the turbolift deposited him on the Bridge. For once he wasn't the last to get to the senior staff's meeting, he thought in relief, noticing that Archer wasn't there yet.

"Mornin' everyone," he said, running down the few steps that led from the Bridge to the Situation Room.

Various greetings bounced back to him. Even Phlox was there, he saw, although the dark and pensive man in a corner of the situation table was hardly recognisable as their jovial CMO. Trip's heart sank. He had secretly hoped Phlox would eventually come up with something that would dispel this nightmare, but it didn't look like it was the case.

Malcolm, taut as a violin string, looked at the clock. What with his inborn precision and the fact that he was always earlier than he was due to arrive anywhere, the man usually started to fidget with the very first second of delay.

T'Pol was absorbed in something on a padd. Trip could not read her expression; but then, that was nothing new. Hoshi looked totally knackered. There were dark smudges under her eyes; it was clear she hadn't got much sleep in the past couple of days. Travis looked a bit lost. The young man must be feeling a bit out of place here, given that his piloting skills were not needed at the moment.

"Any news of the Capt'n?" Trip enquired, approaching the group.

Gazes crossed, but no one answered. T'Pol put down her padd. "It is likely his delay is caused by his new dimensions, and a miscalculation of the time it takes him to reach the Bridge at his reduced velocity. If his lower limbs have shortened by seventy percent, it would-"

"Thank you, T'Pol," Trip cut her off with a grimace, mindless of the fact that she was his superior.

"I went to his quarters before he had breakfast," Phlox said, "to take another blood sample."

"And?" Trip prompted, hoping against all hope he'd got the wrong impression, and the Doc had _some_ reassuring news.

"Are you enquiring after the Captain or after my findings, Commander?" Phlox stalled. But then he didn't wait for Trip's reply and went on, "His molecules have gone crazy and, for the life of me, I can't explain it. I've checked the Interspecies Medical Exchange database, but found nothing that could help me." He sighed. "As for the rest, I found the Captain in good-enough spirits, considering." His voice almost cracked as he informed them, "When I left he measured twenty-two centimetres."

"What?" Trip cried out. "That's impossible! At three-something this morning he was a lot taller than that!"

"I wouldn't use _tall_ and its comparative right now, Commander," Malcolm said darkly. He checked the time again. "I think we should page him," he added, tension exuding from every pore. "He might need help to get around the ship."

"Agreed." Even T'Pol's voice was slightly veiled with emotion. She proceeded to the nearest comm. link. "T'Pol to Captain Archer." Her call went unanswered, and she turned to the situation table. "Lieutenant, verify the Captain's whereabouts with internal sensors."

A minute later, Malcolm lifted stormy eyes. "I cannot find his biosigns on board."

"The computer might not recognise them," Hoshi put in feebly.

"Not possible," Phlox said with a frown. "His biosigns wouldn't have changed, just weakened maybe. Give the sensors a bit more time."

That was when the turbolift opened again. Everybody turned expectantly, but a couple of seconds later it was Müller, Reed's Second, who walked into their line of sight. He stopped dead in his tracks, transfixed by five pair of eyes.

"Aren't you late for your shift, Ensign?" Malcolm asked him with narrowed eyes. His gaze ran to the tactical station, where a young crewman sat as rigid as rock. "You should have relieved Crewman Lang ten minutes ago."

Müller snapped to attention. "Aye, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir," he replied in crisp military fashion. "The Captain summoned me."

"Where is the Captain, Ensign?" T'Pol took over.

Müller's face turned a shade paler while his eyes drifted to the Vulcan Officer. "He…"

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down and Trip's stomach flipped.

"He asked me to transport him down to the planet, Ma'am. I thought you knew," Bernard finally croaked out.

TBC

Ah - Sorry STReader... another volley cliffhanger!


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry for the cliffhanger. Here we go...

§ 6 §

Archer looked around, suddenly uncertain whether sneaking off the Enterprise on his own had been such a good idea. Actually, as he took in his rocky, inhospitable surroundings, he was beginning to feel he knew the answer. He raised a hand, wanting to rake it through his hair, but the sleeve, once again too long, got in the way, and he let his arm fall back with a groan. Damn, but he _was_ going to end up the size of a rat, and then of a cockroach, and then of a flea, and then of a molecule, and then of an atom, and then… And then _what_?

"Welcome."

Archer started, turning in a flash to the faint metallic voice that had come from behind him. At first he could see nothing. But when he shifted his line of sight lower he made out a curious group of three beings, all identical. He didn't want to stop and think just how small _they_ must be, since in comparison he was quite large.

He bent down to have a closer look. They had conical bodies – or should he say _armours_? – of some unidentified material, purple in colour with regularly spaced, thin and bright turquoise horizontal stripes; the cone rounded off at the top, where two turquoise dots peered at him. There was nothing that might be related, even remotely, to a neck, but the straight nose-like protuberances and rugged grins under those turquoise eyes told him that the creatures' heads were, indeed, in what was generally considered the right place for it. Three pairs of short arms jutted out of the cones, one on top of the other, and each ending in three hands. Each being stood on three short legs.

Archer looked at them in awe. Were they even made of flesh and bones? Suddenly, despite his size advantage, he felt a measure of distrust. He didn't like that. He'd come out here for this, to meet new species and explore new worlds. But he had quickly learned that his mission wasn't the almost romantic adventure he had envisioned, and that not everyone shared his enthusiasm for new encounters. In other words, he had learned to be suspicious of smiling aliens. Besides, these were almost certainly responsible for what had happened to him. It was therefore with some trepidation that he wondered what else he was going to learn about the universe today.

"Who are you?" he asked, realising only as he spoke that the creatures had addressed him in English. Were they the same who had sent that signal? If yes, in the meantime they had learned how to communicate… Hoshi had taken a while to decipher it.

"Thank you for answering our call," the same being said.

"You're welcome," Archer automatically replied.

With some difficulty, he flipped open his now abnormally large communicator. He had debated whether to take one, for it had become bulky and uncomfortable to carry, but had finally thought it would be a good precaution. "Archer to Enterprise," he said as he looked, with some misgivings, at the three aliens.

"Captain. I was about to page you. Please repeat, we cannot hear you."

T'Pol's voice boomed back, making him wince and hold the communicator at arm's length – both arms.

"Boost the signal, Ensign," he heard her instruct Hoshi.

Archer's heart missed a beat. _Cannot hear? You mean to tell me… _The one time the communicator was working fine, no dampening field blocked the signal or strange interferences distorted it, his voice was too damn feeble to carry through?

He brought the thing right in front of his mouth. "T'Pol!" he shouted. "Can you hear me now?"

This shouldn't be happening. After all, babies could pierce your eardrums when they screamed! Except he was no baby; he was a damaged adult.

"Captain," T'Pol came back, articulating words clearly as if there were a problem with the comm line, "we can not make out your words. Please repeat."

Archer flipped his communicator shut. He wasn't going to get much help there. He was alone. No, he wasn't alone, he corrected himself, focusing back on the strange aliens at his feet. Right now his best bet was to question the three. There was more than a chance the beings might hold the answer to his predicament.

Suddenly, there was a flash, and he felt dizzy. The world was spinning around him worse than in what Starfleet cadets called the _Vomitorium_. Indeed, if this went on much longer he was going to lose the contents of his stomach. Fortunately, that didn't happen. But his relief, once he felt back on solid ground, quickly turned to dismay and embarrassment: he was suddenly stark-naked, struggling in a sea of cloth. He grappled with it, and with difficulty extricated himself. His heart was pounding loudly against his ribcage, because his brain might have shrunk to the size of a pea, but was still fully functional and quite capable of grasping the implications. He climbed out of the tangle and clamped both hands in front of his nether regions.

"We have prepared your _wtheitheiw_," the metallic voice said, unperturbed, but a lot louder.

Archer was stunned. Now he was eye to eye with the strange beings. Which meant he was as small as… _Oh, hell_. He was being offered what looked like a perfect replica of his uniform in the right size to fit his current stature. He blinked, his mind teaming with too many questions.

"Thank you," he mumbled, mechanically reaching for the garments. At least he could hide his nudity from the curious gazes of these beings. And they _were_ curious, he could tell even though their expressions hadn't changed. He turned away from them and quickly dressed himself.

"Please follow us," the same one of them said, once he was done.

"Where to?" Archer wanted to know. "Why did you send that signal? Why are you doing this to me?"

But the creatures disregarded his enquiries. "This way," their spokesman said, and they started to move away, their three legs working in admirable synchronism.

_This way where?_ Archer wondered. The planet was a ball of dust and rocks... And then, just as he was about to voice his qualms, something shimmered in one of the bigger boulders nearby. Slowly, an opening materialised.

At least he had a feeling he was not going to shrink any further.

* * *

Trip was watching Malcolm and Phlox don their EV suits. Both had their grey undersuits on already: Malcolm's clung to every muscle of his wiry body while Phlox's did nothing to conceal his rotund belly. Malcolm pulled on the outer suit; then heaved up the breast-plate that was resting on the bench in front of him and slipped it on with acquired ease. Phlox was lagging slightly behind. He struggled with the unfamiliar movements, and Trip stepped in to help.

"Thank you, Commander," the doctor gratefully said, glancing at Malcolm as if to see what he was supposed to do next. Phlox never took much part in away missions, and though he had declared that he wasn't uncomfortable wearing an EV suit, he didn't have a lot of practice in putting the bulky thing on.

Unaware of his partner's difficulties, Malcolm was going through the steps quickly, if carefully. He was fully concentrated, as was his nature, especially prior to a mission. His movements were far from fluid, though, telling Trip that under that impassive facade lay a certain dose of anxiousness. Well, knowing him, he must already be thinking ahead to the planet and its hidden dangers.

Malcolm checked and double-checked all the seals on his suit. Trip could not blame him. Nobody would want to risk the Captain's plight, even though Phlox seemed inclined to think it hadn't been caused by a contaminant Archer had picked up because of a failure of his suit. After the Captain's and Malcolm's _dreams_, it seemed practically certain that the culprit had been that strange flash-like phenomenon they both had remembered, but couldn't quite describe.

"Here, Doc." Trip handed Phlox his pair of gloves; then went behind him and checked his oxygen tank and its connecting tubes. The planet's air was breathable, but – again – it was better to be on safe side.

"T'Pol to Lieutenant Reed."

Malcolm frowned; then quickly walked to the closest com link. "Go ahead."

"We have been paged by the Captain, but could not understand his message," T'Pol's voice said. "The signal was too feeble."

"It could well be because of the Captain's size," Phlox suggested bleakly. "His shrinkage rate seems to have accellerated in the last few hours."

Malcolm sought Trip's eyes with eyes where disquiet briefly flashed. There wasn't much reassurance Trip could offer him. He regretted T'Pol's decision to keep him on board. Malcolm could probably use a friend down there. Not that Phlox wasn't one, but Malcolm could probably use an engineer and his technical expertise. T'Pol, though, didn't seem to think so, and right now she was the Acting Captain.

"Lieutenant?" the woman in question prompted.

"Understood," Malcolm replied, shaking off his pensiveness. "We're just about ready to be transported down. I'll let you know what I find. Reed out."

"Look, I'll be in contact," Trip told him quietly. "Won't be like bein' down there with ya, but..."

"It's okay. We'll be fine," Malcolm said tersely, his usual bottled-up self. Grabbing his helmet, he turned to Phlox. "Ready, Doctor?"

Phlox blew out the breath of someone who had just caught up. "Ready, Mister Reed."

Malcolm nodded firmly. "Let's go then. Stand by to transport all of us back, Commander," he threw over his shoulder as he led the way to the transporter room.

"Just say the word and…" Trip trailed off. Something was suddenly tickling his brain cells.

* * *

Archer couldn't believe his eyes. There was a whole miniature city down here, a whole microcosm! The planet was hardly the bare rock it seemed at first sight; that was for sure.

As soon as they had entered, he turned and saw the opening close again, taking once again the appearance of rock. Through his amazement he felt a twinge of fear. He shouldn't have come alone, contravening Starfleet rules. Was Enterprise ever going to find him again? But his curiosity took over, and he put his worries on hold.

They were on a sort of observation platform. In front of them, as far as the eye could see, an incredible landscape of exotic structures and roads stretched, like a fairy-tale city. There were trees and a river, small houses and high-rises, and vehicles of some kind speeding like ants on the main arteries. In the vault above, a rusty-coloured sort of sky, what looked like an artificial sun shone bright.

"Where are we?" he breathed out. "Why am I here?" As usual, no one replied to his questions. He was getting used to that.

"Follow us," the talkative robot – Archer didn't know how else to call him – said once again. And he could do nothing but obey.

* * *

"Reed to Enterprise."

Malcolm heard himself calling the ship; it felt as if someone else was speaking. Maybe this was still part of that nightmare. Maybe he would soon wake up, a cold sweat on his brow, and find himself in bed in his quarters. A hot shower would set him right again. The cold sweat felt very real, though, and he couldn't take his eyes off the small uniform crumpled on the ground, with the abandoned communicator nearby.

"T'Pol here."

"We've found the Captain's uniform and communicator," he said, amazed at how cool he sounded under the circumstances. He would do his Starfleet teachers proud, if they could hear him now. _Keep those emotions under control, at all times but especially when things are at their worst. _Their teachings had fallen on fertile ground. Ground prepared by years of Reed school.

"Can you explain, Lieutenant?" T'Pol's voice came back.

She, too, sounded calm and collected, but she had her Vulcan nature to fall back on; he had no doubts her heart right now, unlike his, wasn't trying to break some ribs.

"The Captain's uniform lies abandoned on the ground, as does his communicator," he said, aware that he wasn't explaining much.

"Any sign of the Captain himself?"

Malcolm looked at Phlox, who was taking readings off the discarded clothes, but the Doctor was too busy even to notice.

"None for the moment," he replied. "I'll keep you apprised. Reed out."

Pressing the comm link on his breastplate closed, Malcolm started to scan the area. The man couldn't have disappeared, could he? – he thought grimly. The head of Security just didn't _lose_ the Captain. Not in his way of thinking. He didn't know if he could ever live with himself knowing his bloody digestion had had anything to do with his Captain's early demise.

Minutes ticked by in total silence.

"I have checked thoroughly," Phlox finally said, standing up from his kneeling position, "but I can't find the Captain's biosigns here."

Malcolm's scanner beeped, and his heart skipped a beat. "That's because he seems to be…" He looked up. "Inside this rock?" he wondered with a grimace.

TBC

I've written so many stories that I can't remember if I used these particular aliens before - they are a faithful description of one of my son's drawings, when he was in kindergarden, a horrible monster with a toothy smile, which is framed and hanging near my desk: "Mommy when she didn't have two hands and two feet **yet**." :-)


	7. Chapter 7

§ 7 §

In this microcosm you didn't move; the sidewalks did. You jumped on, grabbing onto a rail not to lose your balance – for the things were damn fast – and, like conveyor belts, they carried you along to your destination. At crossings, one sidewalk went overhead, the other dived underground, so they didn't get in the way of the odd vehicles speeding down the streets: oblong crystal-clear bubbles that, for all the strange mechanisms you could see through their transparent bodies, didn't make any noise. God only knew under what power they moved. Archer smiled to himself, thinking how Trip would love to get his hands on one.

They had been travelling in this fashion for the past ten minutes and covered a lot of ground. Archer was fascinated. From the inside, the city looked even more amazing than it had from a distance. Like the vehicles, many structures were transparent, so you could see right through them. Archer sped past, transfixed by the scenes he could catch glimpses of, which, despite their exotic flavour, looked oddly familiar. He spotted people at work behind desks of some kind and children in what he assumed was a school. There were shops and restaurants, and a… _doctor's office_? Oh dear, Phlox would be horrified by the breech of doctor/patient confidentiality. Had they no concept of privacy, on this world? He suddenly felt ashamed and shifted his gaze away, seeking less voyeuristic sights: monuments, nature, and the few structures you couldn't see through. These were mostly large and very colourful in bright pinks, blues and violets. This society definitely liked to shock.

"Please prepare to disembark," Talkative Alien instructed him.

Archer saw they were approaching one such large building, with walls painted in a rich pink and an imposing entrance, in front of which were luscious gardens. There were people coming and going; a group of children stood just outside it with an adult – a teacher? – who was explaining something. When they saw him, there was a collective gasp of awe and then cheering, which the adult immediately started to quash.

Archer smiled to himself at the thought of stirring such a reaction.

The three aliens nimbly stepped off the moving sidewalk. Three legs apparently came quite handy in the operation. He followed suit, but whether because of his missing leg or his inexperience, he stumbled and lost his balance, ending up on the ground. Talkative Alien rushed to him.

"Are you damaged?" he asked, a definite hint of concern sending his metallic voice to a higher pitch.

Well, if they cared about his safety, it couldn't be that bad. At least he hoped so. "No, I'm fine, thank you," Archer replied. He righted himself, rubbed his hands to shake some dirt from them, and turned to look at the majestic entrance, above which hung a large sign.

"What is this?" he enquired. "It is a government building?" He took a step towards it, but was stopped by the umpteenth, "This way."

He was truly getting fed up of being ignored and led by the nose like a donkey, but once again he found himself having to follow the aliens, who headed for the back of the building. "Okay, so we'll use the back door," he grumbled as he trudged behind them. Needless to say, no one considered him.

In the rear, the building was shaped like an E, with three wings extending perpendicularly to the main body. Archer was led by his guides all the way to the farthest wing, and there they entered through an unassuming little door.

It was dark inside. Archer squinted, trying to make out his new surroundings, but they remained shrouded in mystery.

"This way," once again he was told.

That did it. He stopped, determined to get a few answers.

"Now, wait a minute," he said firmly. "Where are we going? Who are you? Why am I here? I'm not going anywhere if you don't tell me first," he finished, taking a menacing step towards the three. One step too many: like the sidewalk outside, the corridor started to move conveying him towards whatever destination was in store for him.

* * *

As the turbolift sped up from the bowels of the ship, ferrying him to the Bridge, Trip could hardly contain his excitement. He thought he might have found a way to get Archer back to his metre ninety. The idea had struck him like lightning out of the blue, and he'd spent the last half hour checking its feasibility. Thank God for memory banks, he silently prayed.

Trip burst onto the Bridge the moment the lift doors opened. "T'Pol," he started loudly; but finding the quelling expressions of the Bridge crew converge on him, he clamped his mouth shut, which allowed him to realise that the Acting Captain was currently busy talking to the Away Team.

"Are you certain of this?" T'Pol was saying.

"With all due respect," Malcolm's slightly pissed-off voice came back, "I wouldn't be telling you if I weren't. I'm scanning it right now and..." There was a pause. "This can't be possible," the man continued, almost to himself. "It doesn't make any sense."

Trip braced himself. He knew Malcolm well. If he sounded uptight, like now, it must be with good reason. T'Pol surely thought that too, for even her voice was tinged by a note of concern when she prompted, "Lieutenant?"

"Give me a moment. Let me recalibrate my scanner..."

After what felt like ages, Malcolm's voice returned. "Enterprise, I'm definitely picking up energy readings here, and what looks like life signs... If I weren't in front of a rock I'd say there was an entire city here." His voice turned a shade darker as he added, "And don't ask me why we didn't pick it up before, or even how the hell I can read all that with a simple hand scanner, because I really do not know."

"There might actually be a city," T'Pol pointed out. "Underground."

Perched on the edge of the Captain's seat, her impassivity was once again briefly cracked, this time by a twitch of her mouth.

"It could be a small-scale society," she further reasoned.

"Doctor Phlox believes the Captain has shrunk to a minuscule size," Malcolm came back. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a swear word. "If what you're suggesting is true, he could have been taken prisoner."

"Or taken in as a guest," Trip countered loudly enough for his voice to be picked up on the open link. "Why do you always have to think the worst?"

Malcolm disregarded him, and went on tautly, "I wouldn't want to try using any explosive, or even my phase pistol on this rock, unless absolutely necessary." His tactical mind was already in full swing. "Not without having a better idea of what I'm dealing with. I could endanger the Captain's life."

"Or damage this hypothetical society," T'Pol added. "We do not know them to be hostile."

"It seems pretty clear to me," Malcolm predictably commented.

There was a lull in the conversation, and Trip took advantage of it to step forward.

"You might not need to use explosives or a phase pistol," he butted in. "How strong are the Capt'n's biosigns? Could the transporter read them?"

"I doubt it. They're quite faint," Malcolm came back. "Damn it, and we still haven't got a clue to what's caused the Captain's problem."

"We might not need, either." Trip, who was now by the Captain's chair, engaged T'Pol's gaze. "I think I can use the transporter to bring the Capt'n back to his original self," he informed her.

The Vulcan turned from the viewscreen, which was filled with the brownish sphere. "Explain."

"The transporter still has the Capt'n's full-size pattern sequence in its memory banks," Trip went on excitedly. "If I lock onto his biosigns and bring him back using that sequence, he should be restored to his old self."

"That's clever, Commander," Malcolm commented right away. "Good thinking. It could actually work."

T'Pol's intense gaze went right through Trip, as she weighed the new plan. She straightened in the chair, focusing back on the present. "We must give more power to the transporter and increase its range," she reasoned, for Trip's sake. And then to the Away Team, "Lieutenant, Doctor: keep monitoring the Captain's biosigns. We shall need to know his coordinates."

* * *

"You are the chosen one. You must be proud."

Archer didn't find the words reassuring. To be "chosen" for something often meant nobody else had been found that would be suitable – not necessarily a good thing. And that little addendum, "You must be proud," for some reason brought to mind an old tune: _Just a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down_. Couldn't remember who sang that and why.

"Chosen for what?" he asked of the new being he had been taken to, identical to the others but for the fact that his conical body was dark red – though the stripes across it and his beady eyes were still that intense turquoise colour that went right through your brain.

They were in a room filled with technical equipment he could not recognise. The thing that didn't give him good vibes, in particular, was the big screen that filled an entire wall, with a representation of the quadrant and dots scattered throughout it, marking planets he knew well – like Vulcan or Qu'onos – and others he had barely heard of. Some of the dots were lit; Earth's was blinking.

"To represent your homeworld," the new being finally answered. His voice was more resonant than Talkative Alien's rather tinny tone, and sounded more authoritative.

The words left Archer, who was all geared up to put up a fight, out of balance. "Yes, of course," he said, containing his irritation, "I am proud of being Earth's ambassador. My mission is to meet new species, but I must tell you that I prefer a more honest approach." He gave the new alien a scowl, wanting him to understand from his facial expression if not from anything else that to downsize someone to a microscopic thing was unacceptable, and not the best way to make friends.

"Honest?" the four beings looked at each other, seemingly puzzled. They started to speak in their own language with a thick volley of unintelligible sounds, and their turquoise stripes started pulsing. After a while, Red Alien raised two pairs of arms, and silence returned.

"We have prepared you a place," he said.

Archer wasn't very eager to stay; but he had an obligation to diplomacy. "Thank you," he said with a taut smile. "However, before we get to know each other better, I need to contact my ship. Also, I would like to be reassured that after our talks I will be free to go and will be restored to my original size."

Once again, the four beings looked confused. Once again they began to confer amongst themselves, casting the odd surreptitious look in his direction.

"You are the _chosen_ one," Red Alien repeated after a moment, stressing the concept. "We have prepared a place. Your place."

A shiver went down Archer's spine.

TBC

A big thank you to my reviewers. Keep them coming! And you can now see the model of this story's aliens in my new avatar.


	8. Chapter 8

Sadly, my stats page hasn't been working for days, so I can't tell if the 70 odd people who are reading this have caught up with chapter 7. I hope they have.

§ 8 §

The Mess Hall was empty, but it wouldn't be long before it filled up with the hungry evening crew. Chef was already starting to place his dishes in the serving cabinet, and tantalising whiffs drifted towards Trip's table. Soon, indeed, the place would be too crowded and noisy, but Trip hoped to have cracked his problem by then.

As he pored over the transporter's specs, images of Archer kept piercing into his calculations, interrupting his work flow. He couldn't help but wonder how small the Captain would have become in the meantime, and where he had ended up. Concern was slowing him down, damn it. Trip passed a hand through his hair. He had a chance to set things right, and the hell if he'd botch it.

With a few modifications… He focused back on his job, and became so absorbed that he was aware of nothing else until a glass was placed on his table. He hadn't even realised someone had entered the Mess. As he shifted his gaze from the padd and its specs to the glass and its milky content, a slender hand placed a saucer with a piece of pecan pie beside it.

"I believe you mentioned that this type of nutrition was… beneficial," T'Pol said.

"I said it was good for the soul," Trip corrected her with a tired smile. He sighed. "Exactly what I need. Thanks." He picked up the fork, cut a morsel of pie, and shoved it into his mouth. He hadn't realised how hungry he'd become, either.

He looked up at T'Pol, who was standing there, not making any move to sit down.

"Have you made any advancement?" she asked, meeting his gaze.

Trip grabbed the glass of milk and downed a large sip, helping the pie towards its destination. "Almost there," he choked out, eager to resume his calculations. "I think I've found the way to boost the transporter's range and better its efficiency enough for the job, without making it blow up in my face. Tricky, but it should work."

"How soon can you implement your modifications?"

"Just need to smooth out a few creases. Give me half an hour," Trip said, and took another large bite of his favourite pie.

* * *

Archer felt his blood turn to ice. He clenched his fists tight as a new moving corridor took him down a gallery of horrors. He wanted to close his eyes, but they had frozen wide open, the disobedient little bastards, as if they had rebelled and disconnected themselves from his brain.

He was travelling down an aisle with exhibition cases on both sides, and for a moment he was transported back in time, to the Natural History Museum where his dad used to take him as a kid. He'd never thought one day he might end up _behind_ the glass. But that's what it looked it was going to be, saving for a miracle that didn't seem very likely.

He passed a tall Klingon, a powerful male who in this miniature world still towered over him by a good span. The man was frozen in an expression of anger and in a pose worthy of the warrior he must have been in life, brandishing a bat'leth. He wondered if the man had considered it a good day to die, the day he'd been captured and embalmed. It didn't look like it. Next to him was an alien of a species Archer didn't recognise, a curved thing with a smooth, hairless head of exaggerated proportions on which thick veins crisscrossed forming confused, intricate patterns. All that brain hadn't saved him from becoming an exhibit in a museum, Archer mused grimly. He'd seen a Xyrillian, and an Andorian with a damaged antenna – and Shran's outraged face had flashed through his mind. He'd even caught a glimpse of one of those fellows with the huge ears, those greedy hoarders who had sneakily put the crew to sleep and almost succeeded in stripping Enterprise bare.

They turned into another long hallway, this too lined with cases. How many _exhibits_ had these monsters collected? How long had they been at it? It seemed just about everyone had fallen in their net. All the hapless beings put on display had diagrams explaining their physiology, and a map behind them that showed the part of the quadrant they came from, their planet a lit dot in it. So that's what the map in that room had signified, Archer suddenly realised with dread: it was like a picture-card album, showing what specimens they had, and which still needed collecting! And how had they known he was from Earth? They must have got into Enterprise's data banks.

Suddenly the moving corridor slowed down, and Archer realised they were coming to an empty case. Nausea roiled in his stomach; his breath hitched. Was that to be his "place"? The place they had so kindly prepared for him? Was that where he was going to spend the rest of eternity, an object of curiosity for school children and scholars? He suddenly felt a wave of sympathy for the animals that, as a kid, had filled him with wonder.

The corridor stopped. He vaguely noticed the Nausicaan and the fat, blotchy being that were on either side of the empty case; but his eyes couldn't shift from the lit dot on the map in front of him: Earth. There wasn't a drop of saliva left in his mouth. He, Captain Jonathan Archer of the Starship Enterprise, was going to end up as a museum exhibit. And he was powerless to do anything about it.

And these midgets expected him to be happy about it? _Proud_?

* * *

"Commander, we're losing him," Malcolm growled through the comm.

"His lifesigns are faint," Phlox added, uncharacteristically agitated. "His pulse has accelerated. I recommend you transport him out as quickly as possible."

"Commander?" T'Pol enquired from the Bridge, her calm voice overlapping the Doctor's.

"Yes, yes!" _No stress, right?_ Trip licked his lips, connecting the last wire. He rolled out from under the transporter, not bothering to replace the front panel.

"Mike, we're ready," he called to Rostov in Engineering. "Start giving me power. Make sure it's a gradual thing, check the flow on your end, don't let it go past the four mark."

"Aye, Commander."

At the machine's controls, eyes fixed on his own readings, Trip mentally crossed his fingers. He'd worked fast and hadn't had time to double-check his calculations. He just hoped… Levels in the gauges started to climb. He held his breath, letting it slowly out as the indicators evened out.

"Range and power have increased by thirty-two percent," he said excitedly for the benefit of the Bridge. "It's more than I'd expected. T'Pol, it's now or never. I don't know how long the transporter can handle this much power." Without waiting for a reply he went on, "Malcolm, coordinates?"

"I'm uploading them right now," the Lieutenant promptly answered.

Just then T'Pol entered his peripheral vision. So that's why she hadn't acknowledged his words. She'd been on her way, wanting to be present. As she joined him at the console, Trip spared her but a quick glance. She had probably come to give him support in case things didn't go the way they all hoped, and he was grateful. He felt nervous about this. It was the life of his friend and Captain in the balance.

"Can you bring back Lieutenant Reed and Doctor Phlox at the same time as the Captain?" she enquired. "The beings that seem to inhabit this planet might take the Captain's removal as a hostile action."

"Already thought of that," Trip said. "I've locked on to them, and will bring them back a second after the Capt'n is safely on board."

Malcolm's info came in. He had everything he needed: he had loaded Archer's full-size pattern sequence and now proceeded to put in his coordinates. All that was left to do was…

Trip grabbed the levers and pulled them gently down.

* * *

Archer wasn't going to make it easy for these creeps to turn him into a stuffed animal. He looked around for a way to escape, but could see no exit signs – not that he would've recognised them. Any direction would do.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to a thin, tall, hairy being two cases further. As the aliens – bless their naivety – turned to look, he took off the other way. He took but a few steps, and found his muscles wouldn't respond. It was as if he had suddenly started to move in slow motion. Casting a look behind him, he saw that Red Alien had six hands wrapped around a device of some sort, which he was pointing at him.

"Your place is ready," he said, unperturbed; almost kindly. "This way."

Cold was snaking through Archer's veins. His very mental processes were slowing down.

* * *

Malcolm watched Archer's lifesigns move and cursed under his breath. "Quick, Commander, or I'll have to give you new coordinates!"

* * *

A tingling sensation. The transporter? Archer could barely form the word in his benumbed mind. His breathing had become shallow; his limbs rigid. He watched the gallery of horrors disappeared before his eyes and couldn't even feel relief. Next he knew, he was looking at Trip and T'Pol; the one was biting his lip to repress a smile, the other blinked.

Archer blinked too. Everything seemed the right size, and his heart leapt. Back _and_ his old self? The numbing sensation had vanished. He wiggled his fingers: they moved. Too good to be true. Stunned, he brought a hand to his chest, and touched skin. As in _bare_ skin. Next he looked down at himself. Oh, damn! Was the humiliation ever going to end?

Clamping once again his hands in front of him to hide his nudity, he looked up as Trip cleared his throat.

"Mind stepping off the transporter pad, Sir?" the man asked, still fighting that smile. Archer stumbled obediently, if awkwardly, down the few steps, while Trip worked the levers again, with a muttered, "Sorry." Archer feared he knew why. No, the humiliation wasn't finished yet. He kept his back to the transporter platform.

"Ah! Captain!" Phlox's unmistakable voice said a couple of seconds later, from behind him. "You appear to be in…" Archer turned slightly to see the Denobulan's mouth stretch into that smile of his. "...good shape," the Doctor concluded. Malcolm, eyes carefully focused at a certain height, mumbled an uncomfortable, "Indeed."

"It is agreeable to see you," T'Pol echoed.

Archer turned again. This was too much.

"Yes, well, it's great to see you all," he said with a mirthless smile and as much dignity as he could muster. "And now, if somebody could kindly get me something to put on... I'd rather avoid parading in front of the entire crew in my birthday suit."

T'Pol took a few unhurried steps towards him, and Archer saw that she was holding out his robe.

"I thought you might require some apparel, if, as the Commander thought you might, you reacquired your stature," she said, with the same calm detachment she would use to hand him a padd.

"My stature is something it will take me very long to reacquire," Archer commented, gratefully accepting the offer. He quickly slipped it on and knotted the belt. He checked the hem: it barely covered his knees – thank God.

"Welcome back, Capt'n," Trip said.

The engineer had finally lost his fight with that smile.

TBC

There, back to his original self! An epilogue will wrap this up.


	9. Chapter 9

A great big thank you to my readers and reviewers.

§ _Epilogue_ §

Archer had donned a fresh uniform – a perfectly fitting, fresh uniform of the right size! – and was on his knees, playfully fighting with Porthos, when his door bell chimed. "Come," he called, leaning back on his heels. "Enough, boy," he told his exuberant pet. The beagle gave a muffled bark, lowered himself on his front paws and wiggled his tail energetically, but Archer disregarded his antics and turned to the door. T'Pol appeared. She took in the scene, and her body language hinted to unease.

"Come in, Subcommander," Archer said cheerfully. He wouldn't let her mood affect him today.

In fact, he wasn't going to let anything tarnish his happiness today. With the help of one of Phlox's miraculous juices, he'd slept the sleep of the just, and now he felt on top of the world. He _had_ had a brief moment of panic when he'd woken, but it had quickly been dispelled, together with the darkness, by the lights he'd turned on.

"Am I interrupting anything?" T'Pol asked, lifting one foot to take a step over the slightly raised threshold.

She entered just enough to let the door close behind her, and stopped. Even from that distance, her oversensitive nose twitched. The scents from a Human _and_ a dog were probably a hellish enough mix to turn a Vulcan's stomach, and Archer felt a twinge of empathy, this being just after breakfast.

"Nothing important," he reassured her. With a last scratch of Porthos's head, he picked himself up and turned to give her his full attention. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to see if you had… rested well."

Archer smiled inwardly. Was T'Pol trying to be a bit Human? To show concern? "I slept like a log, thank you."

She blinked.

"Means very well," Archer clarified. "A _log_, you know? It's dead weight, doesn't move…" He shrugged, and T'Pol's eyebrows did a little dance, as if saying, "Have it your way."

"You are late," she pointed out.

Ah. Archer heaved an inner sigh. He should have known the visit would have a logical reason, more than an emotional one. "Yes. I'm sorry. I was taking it a bit easy, for once. Had breakfast delivered to my quarters. It's all Phlox's fault, really," he quipped with a chuckle. "He must have made sure that what he gave me to make me sleep knocked me off good."

He caught T'Pol's gaze running him up and down, as if to reassure herself he was the right height, and raised an arm for her benefit. "The sleeve fits perfectly," he said. "All's well that ends well."

T'Pol licked her lips. Archer frowned. She seemed… Well, if she weren't Vulcan, he'd say that she was tense.

"I have written my report for the Vulcan High Command," she informed him, latching her hands behind her back.

Archer snorted mirthlessly. "Soval will have the time of his life reading it." As he picked up Porthos's bowl and filled it with the dog's breakfast, he thought about his own report. He wasn't looking forward to it, to reliving his misadventure. "I still have to write mine for Starfleet," he said. But he had promised himself not to let anything bother him today. "Shall we?" he asked, waving an arm towards the door.

* * *

Malcolm was having a bad start of the day. _You don't say_, that bitchy little voice in his mind whispered ironically, suggesting things he'd rather not acknowledge. He slammed a mental door in its face. The Captain was safely back on board, and of the right height, so there really was no reason to feel under the weather.

"Did you sleep well, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm cast a hooded glance up from his breakfast table. The question, the way it had been voiced, implied it was as clear as daylight that he hadn't – slept well. Hoshi was standing there, tray in hand.

"Anyone sitting here?" she went on to enquire, rather perfunctorily.

"No," Malcolm muttered. His gentlemanly self, apparently, was AWOL. Hoshi's eyebrows lifted, underlining his curtness.

"'No' as in you haven't slept well, or 'no' as in no one is sitting here?" she asked in that matter-of-fact way of hers, which made him feel really bad about his manners. A second later, though, she broke into a mischievous smile.

Well, there was no denying the evidence. Malcolm twisted his face into a lopsided grimace. "Both," he said deadpan. "I'm sorry, Ensign. Please." He reached over and pulled out a chair for her.

Silence fell as Hoshi settled down and began to spread jam on her toast with deliberate gestures. Malcolm was happy to quietly watch her. As always, it pleased the eye to see her elegant movements. His mind was carried away to a few days back, when they had sat at this same table, going through the same motions, blessedly unaware of the impending crisis. Hoshi flicked him a couple of glances; then, having finished her task, raised her toast to her mouth and her gaze to him. She looked as if she knew what was going on with him, which was something, considering he didn't know himself – well, _sort_ of.

"The warning buoy we launched will save others from going through our same experience," she said, toast still hovering in front of her mouth. "Aren't you relieved that everything's ended well?" Only then did she take a bite, her dark eyes studying him all the time.

Malcolm heaved a deep breath and blew it out. "Yeah, of course," he said half-heartedly.

Munching on her morsel, Hoshi kept looking at him, obviously waiting for more.

Before Malcolm could speak, though, Trip appeared. He didn't go through the ritual polite enquiry, but plonked himself on a chair, putting his tray on the table with a cheerful, "Morning." His only concession to form, as he spread his napkin with a flourish, was a jocular, "Hope I'm not interrupting anything." When that didn't get him a reply, the wind was taken out of his sails, and he took a closer look at his breakfast companions. "Am I?" he wondered, discomfort suddenly clouding the sun of his cheerfulness. But that – as was usual – didn't last long, and his face subtly reshaped to ill-concealed curiosity.

"No, you're not," Malcolm hurried to say. That's all he needed, for Trip to think there was something going on between him and Hoshi. The man would never let him be. He caught Hoshi's mouth twitch at the corners with amusement. Every time there was a double entendre of that sort, her reaction seemed to be very different from his. Interesting.

"Malcolm was telling me he hasn't slept well," she said, quickly recovering a serious mien.

As she took another bite of toast, her gaze alighted on Malcolm's face again. She appeared to be looking for clues, as if to prove a secret theory she had formed. Malcolm sighed inwardly. Couldn't they leave him well enough alone?

Trip chuckled and attacked his eggs. "Of course. He must've spent the night tossin' and turnin', consumed with jealousy because _I_ was the one who found the way to save the Capt'n."

So now they were _both_ going to play shrink. Malcolm tightened his grip on his cup of tea. Even if there were any truth in Trip's words, which wasn't the case, of course, he was never going to admit it. "That's nonsense," he replied in a carefully unruffled tone. "I even complimented you publicly on your clever idea, Commander."

Trip shot him an I-know-better look, but Hoshi came to the rescue.

"It must have been the tension, then," she suggested with a dismissive shrug. "I never sleep well after I've been wound-up tight. It takes me a while to relax."

"I bet the Captain slept well," Malcolm put in. He hated all this attention on himself. This ought to deflect some of it.

"Hmm…" Hoshi reached for her cup of tea. "I don't know. This adventure was bad enough to give _anyone_ nightmares for a month!"

Blimey. He hadn't even thought of that. Malcolm suppressed a grimace. Not only had he gone on an away mission when he wasn't feeling well, fainted inside his EV suit, and failed to protect his Captain from being turned into a midget, but he was probably also responsible for giving the man psychological problems.

"Yeah," Trip butted in, "_nobody_ will forget it very soon, that's for sure."

Two pairs of eyes converged on him, and all of a sudden Malcolm knew he'd had enough. "Fine," he burst out irritably, "I didn't sleep well because I feel responsible, okay? Now that I've said it, maybe you can stop trying to analyse me."

Hoshi stood up and wiped her mouth. "You have defended the ship and the Captain on many occasions, Malcolm," she said firmly. "You really have nothing to feel bad about. I'm sure there was nothing you could have done, anyway." She picked up her tray. "See you on the Bridge," she said. And left.

Malcolm watched her go with a frown. It was as if she'd been waiting for his admission so she could get up and go, eased of a burden.

"Yeah, don't feel bad."

Malcolm turned back to Trip.

"The important thing is that we got him back, and in the right size," the man was saying with one of his soothing smiles. Suddenly it fell, and he jerked his head sideways. "Of course, there's the question of pride, I understand."

"I told you, I'm glad someone got him back," Malcolm patiently repeated. "I don't mind that it was you."

"Yeah, yeah, but… the _chosen_ one…" Trip added, as if that explained anything.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "What on earth do you mean?" He had half a suspicion he shouldn't ask; Trip definitely looked to be up to something. But it was too late.

"Weeeell… Those guys wanted a Human..."

"Yes, to put him on display in their 'Species of the Quadrant Museum'," Malcolm snorted in disgust. He was digging his own hole, he was sure of it.

Unexpectedly, Trip got up too. Malcolm breathed in relief; but the engineer patted a hand on his shoulder and bent down to whisper, "Obviously, the Capt'n was a better _specimen_."

Bloody hell. That too. He hadn't thought of it either.

"Thank you," Malcolm hissed. "Just what my self-esteem needed this morning."

Trip let out a good laugh. "Come on," he said. "I could use your help with the transporter. I need to recalibrate it."

"All right," Malcolm sighed. He pushed up. "I suppose I owe you one."

* * *

Archer and T'Pol walked side by side in the corridor.

After a while, T'Pol said, "Captain."

Her voice commanded attention, and Archer gave her a sidelong glance.

"I cannot guarantee that Ambassador Soval will not share my report with Admiral Forrest."

Her brown eyes seemed to want to communicate something beyond the words she had spoken. Archer stopped in front of the turbolift. "I know that," he said, pushing the button. "Don't worry, I've got used to that by now." The doors of the lift opened, and he went in. Turning, he saw that T'Pol wasn't making any move to follow. "Aren't you coming to the Bridge?

She inclined her head slightly to one side. "I wish to analyse some data we collected with the help of Doctor Phlox."

"Okay." Before he could push the button, T'Pol resumed her previous train of thought.

"You are aware that my report contains… a rather sensitive issue," she said.

It wasn't a question. Archer gave her a frown of incomprehension.

With characteristic calm, she explained, "I am referring to your breaking Starfleet regulations."

Archer groaned; he hadn't thought about that. Biting his lip, he stepped out of the lift again and cast a furtive looked around, lest anyone hear this conversation. "I guess we can do nothing about it," he said, wincing.

T'Pol blinked and her brown eyes shifted for a brief moment away, before returning to Archer. She pursed her lips. "Lieutenant Reed and Doctor Phlox transported to the planet shortly after you. Thirteen point twenty-three minutes later."

She had left something unspoken, Archer was sure of it, and he began to enjoy this. "Are you suggesting we lie, Subcommander?"

Her eyebrows lifted. "Merely that we omit to specify you transported down without informing your senior staff."

"Hmm." Archer tried to keep his amusement from his green eyes as he feigned pensiveness. "Thirteen point twenty-three minutes is a rather long time. But I suppose those bigwigs sitting behind desks at Starfleet Command don't know that under certain circumstances – dusty planets and the like – the transporter, being a delicate piece of equipment, shouldn't be overloaded by transporting too many people at one time, or too quickly," he reasoned. "We could explain that to them. Soval will undoubtedly criticise my recklessness, but he's never thought very highly of me in the first place, anyway."

There was a pause. They looked at each other.

"Agreed," T'Pol said with the umpteenth lift of her eyebrows. And, with a nod, turned and started towards Sickbay.

As he watched her go, Archer finally let his mouth curve into a smile. He wondered if she "agreed" to the plan or to the fact that Soval thought him an irresponsible jerk with two left feet. But deep down he knew: both. He shook his head, smile growing larger, and pushed the button again, for in the meantime the turbolift had been called.

Oh, yes. He was thoroughly determined to enjoy the day.

* * *

Malcolm and Trip left the Mess and started down the corridor.

"So, the Captain is fine?" Malcolm asked. "I mean physically. I heard those creeps were about to turn him into a statue, when you got him back."

"Yeah." Trip blew out a breath. "Just in the nick of time. Phlox says that whatever they used on him lost its power when he regained his full size. He's okay."

"Hmm."

T'Pol appeared, coming from the opposite direction. "Morning, Subcommander," Trip greeted. Malcolm nodded, and she nodded back.

They parted to let her pass. As they resumed walking side by side, Malcolm bit his lip and flicked Trip a concerned look. "We'd better check the transporter thoroughly. I'm glad you asked for my help. Two people work faster than one, and… Well, I'm a friend. You can trust me not to start any rumours."

Trip frowned. A delicious sight.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he enquired, without a clue.

Malcolm let surprise suddenly slacken his face muscles. "Ah, right!" he said, clapping a hand to his forehead. "When the Captain re-materialised, you didn't get a chance to see him from _behind_."

"Why?"

Trip was definitely puzzled, almost worried, and Malcolm had to call on his discipline not to crack.

"What the hell are you tryin' to say, Malcolm?"

His Southern accent was thick. Malcolm made himself grimace. "A… _greenish_ patch right on the Captain's… I seriously doubt it was there in the first place."

"You're kiddin' me," Trip dismissed, but his voice held a hint of uncertainty.

He had to play this well. Malcolm let his grey eyes go steely. "I'm afraid I'm dead serious, Commander."

They turned a corner, and found themselves face to face with the very man, who was waiting for the turbolift.

"Capt'n," Trip stuttered, bewilderment battling with horror for prime position on his face.

"Sir." Malcolm's inner amusement vanished as he surreptitiously searched Archer's features. To his relief, they didn't seem lined with tiredness. In fact, the man looked quite happy.

"Trip, Malcolm," Archer, indeed, cheerfully greeted them from the height of his metre ninety. "Going to the Bridge?"

"Ah… actually, to the transporter room," Trip sputtered. "Got to recalibrate the thing."

"Are you feeling well?" Archer enquired, studying his Chief Engineer. "You look… troubled."

"Uh – yeah, I mean NO. I'm fine."

Archer frowned; then shrugged and broke into a smile, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes.

They all entered the turbolift.

"F deck is closer, go there first," the Captain said.

Moments later they were there.

"See you later," Archer said, as Trip and Malcolm exited.

"Aye, Sir," Malcolm replied for both of them, for Trip seemed to have lost his tongue.

Trip watched their CO disappear behind the lift doors; then turned to Malcolm. "Greenish patch?" he repeated worriedly. "You sure it wasn't a bruise?"

Malcolm shook his head pensively. He looked around, seemingly making sure no one was coming. "Good thing it's in a spot where he won't see it very easily," he said in a low voice.

Trip lowered his gaze to the deckplating. "How the hell…" he wondered.

"You sure you didn't mix in a bit of Vulcan in that sequence?" Malcolm asked.

"_What_?"

Ah, the sweet revenge! A bit childish perhaps, but the look on Trip's face was well worth it.

And for once it was Malcolm's laughter that echoed down the corridor.

THE END

One last review will make me happy!


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